The  Echo  of  Wees 


Richard  Curie 


THE  ECHO 
OF  VOICES 


THE  NEWEST  BORZOI  BOOKS 

ASPHALT 

By  Orrick  Johns 

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By   William  English   Walling 

THE  BOOK  OF  SELF 
By  James  Oppenheim 

THE  BOOK  OF  CAMPING 
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MODERN  RUSSIAN  HISTORY 
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THE  RUSSIAN  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING 
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THE  JOURNAL  OF  LEO  TOLSTOI  (1895- 
1899) 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SUPER- 
TRAMP 

By  William  H.  Davies 
Preface  by  Bernard  Shaic 


RICHARD  CURLE 

THE    ECHO 
OF  VOICES 


The  Secret  of  Hearts,  too  terrible  for 
the  timid  eyes  of  men,  shall  return, 
veiled  forever,  to  the  Inscrutable 
Creator  of  good  and  evil,  to  the 
Matter  of  doubts  and  impulses. 

CONRAD 


NEW  YORK  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


TO 

G.  L.  SARTORIS 


2135017 


CONTENTS 


The  Two  Dependants  11 
Midnight  79 
His  Kingdom  101 
The  Would-be  Friends  128 
General  Service  171 
Monsieur  Clavel  201 
Deep  Down  227 
Nineteen  257 


THE  TWO  DEPENDANTS 


THE  TWO  DEPENDANTS 

HE  had  not  made  a  good  impression  on  the 
Court.  There  was  something  altogether 
too  expansive  and  urbane  about  him. 
Moreover,  quite  apart  from  the  fact  that  the  case 
against  him  looked  extremely  ugly,  he  was  so  sur- 
prisingly like  the  popular  idea  of  a  financial  shark 
that  every  one  had  at  once  made  up  their  minds  that 
he  was  guilty  before  a  word  had  been  said.  His 
name  was  Hubert  Percival  Masham,  he  was  about 
forty  years  old,  and  he  was  accused  of  shady  trans- 
actions as  a  Company  Promoter,  and  Outside  Broker, 
a  General  Agent,  and  God  only  knows  what  else. 
He  looked  healthy,  in  spite  of  an  inclination  to  stout- 
ness which  was  more  or  less  concealed  by  the  fact 
that  it  was  that  sort  of  general,  firm  stoutness  which 
overtakes  hearty  men  of  early  middle-age  who  have 
always  led  a  sedentary  life  and  eaten  too  well.  He 
perspired  freely  ( and  even  when  he  wasn't  perspiring 
he  gave  the  impression  that  he  was  just  going  to), 
and  when  he  wiped  his  forehead  a  delicate  odour  of 
scent  was  wafted  as  far  as  the  jury-box.  He  had 
large,  white  hands,  the  nails  of  which  were  beautifully 

11 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


manicured.  He  would  have  been  very  well  dressed 
if  only  everything  had  not  been  slightly  overdone. 
The  polish  on  his  boots  was  too  bright,  the  crease  on 
his  trousers  too  marked,  the  gloss  on  his  hat  too  im- 
maculate. There  was  a  suggestion  of  pomade  on 
his  hair.  His  face  was  clean-shaven,  florid,  and  when 
he  opened  his  mouth  to  smile  (which  was  frequently) 
several  gold  stoppings  showed  distinctly  amongst  his 
even,  white  teeth.  In  his  tie  he  wore  a  pearl  pin, 
quite  genuine,  but  rather  too  large  to  be  in  the  best 
of  taste.  His  shirt,  socks,  and  handkerchief  were  of 
a  uniform  shade  of  pale  mauve  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  had  given  the  greatest  attention  to  his  ap- 
pearance. He  belonged,  in  fact,  to  a  recognised 
type,  to  the  type  of  person  who  is  in  the  City  but  not 
of  it,  who  appears  there  suddenly  with  a  blaze  of 
trumpets  and  is  as  suddenly  gone  as  any  thief  in  the 
night.  He  was  one  of  these  men  who  receive  you  in 
elegant  offices,  the  unmistakable  air  of  impermanence 
about  which  is  lost  upon  you  in  the  affability  and 
conviction  of  their  conversation.  On  business,  in- 
deed, they  are  so  convincing  that  clients  have  been 
known  to  declare  that  they  really  can't  quite  believe 
the  world  is  as  perfect  as  all  that.  Perhaps  they 
are  bewildered  by  their  prospective  good  fortune. 
Well,  it  is  an  enviable  state ! 

They  are  an  amazing  product  of  our  time,  these 
financiers  de  la  lime,  with  their  everlasting  optimism, 


The  Two  Dependants 


their  urgent  and  cryptic  conversations  on  the  tele- 
phone, their  power  of  making  you  purchase  things 
which  no  one  on  earth  could  have  faith  in.  And  they 
always  appear  to  have  more  money  than  they  know 
what  to  do  with,  until  suddenly  they  have  no  money 
at  all.  Then  it  comes  out  that  they  have  never 
really  had  any  —  but  no  ordinary  person  can  under- 
stand why  some  money  is  money  and  other  money 
(which  buys  the  same  things)  isn't.  But  manipu- 
lators are  optimistic  by  nature.  You  should  hear 
the  speeches  they  make  before  the  Official  Receiver ! 
And  if,  unfortunately,  they  ever  find  themselves  in 
the  Dock  they  behave  in  a  dignified  and  admirable 
way.  Perhaps  they  really  do  have  a  feeling  of  in- 
jured innocence.  Why  not?  At  any  rate  they  in- 
variably give  prompt,  full,  and  engaging  explana- 
tions of  everything.  And  yet  you  may  be  quite 
sure  that  however  scandalous  the  things  are  that 
come  out,  there  are  much  more  scandalous  things  that 
never  do  come  out.  But  you  wouldn't  think  it  from 
their  appearance.  They  look  more  like  the  judge 
than  the  judge  himself  does.  No,  you  would  never 
think  it  unless  their  very  magnificence  made  you 
doubtful.  Then  observing  them  more  closely  it 
might  dawn  upon  you  that  there  was  something 
wrong.  You  might  begin  to  distrust  that  rounded 
perfection.  It  might  remind  you  of  an  over-ripe 
plum  which  conceals  a  wasp.  And  you  might  think 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


all  at  once,  "  Suppose  I  had  played  cards  with  him, 
would  he  have  paid?  "  But  your  doubts  would  be 
wrong.  Although  he  would  probably  have  beaten 
you  (and  quite  fairly),  yet,  if  you  had  happened  to 
win,  he  would  have  been  most  punctilious  about  pay- 
ing. (They  are  the  sort  of  men  who  carry  big  sums 
of  money  in  their  evening  trousers.)  On  the  other 
hand,  if  you  had  played  stocks  and  shares  with 
him.  .  .  .  But  that's  too  painful  to  think  of.  ... 
Mr.  Masham,  sitting  in  the  dock  with  his  head  rest- 
ing gracefully  on  his  white  hand,  was  aware  that 
sentiment  was  against  him.  He  was  listening  to  a 
very  unpleasant  speech  from  the  opposing  Counsel 
and  though  he  was  trying  to  follow  it  carefully  his 
mind  would  keep  wandering  over  all  sorts  of  unim- 
portant subjects.  The  interval  for  luncheon  was 
near  and  a  faint,  persistent  stir  began  to  make  itself 
felt  throughout  the  court.  For  almost  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Mr.  Masham  did  not  feel  hungry.  He 
did  not  even  feel  thirsty.  What  was  it  the  fellow 
was  saying?  —  mumble,  mumble,  mumble!  What  an 
ass !  He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  dabbed  his 
forehead.  Ass!  He  let  his  eyes  pass  slowly  over 
all  the  faces  before  him  and  he  read  there  nothing 
but  hostility,  bitter,  prying  hostility.  Suddenly  he 
smiled.  Down  at  the  back  of  the  court  one  pair  of 
eyes  was  fixed  on  him  with  a  very  different  expression. 
They  were  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Barker,  his  oldest  clerk. 

14 


The  Two  Dependants 


Of  course,  old  is  a  comparative  term  with  men  of  Mr. 
Masham's  stamp.  Their  business  is  founded  on  the 
magic  word  new.  It  has  the  same  sort  of  attraction 
for  foolish  speculators  as  new  theologies  have  for 
foolish  Christians.  Still,  in  this  light,  Mr.  Barker 
was  an  old  servant.  He  had  been  with  Mr.  Masham 
for  nearly  six  years.  And  he  was  invaluable  to  him 
because  he  was  so  transparently  honest.  He  be- 
longed to  as  distinct  a  type  as  did  Mr.  Masham  him- 
self. He  was  one  of  these  men  whose  extraordinary 
simplicity  is  combined  with  something  utterly  un- 
yielding. His  outer  appearance  exactly  represented 
the  man  himself.  In  no  society  in  the  world  could  he 
have  been  taken  for  anything  but  a  clerk.  He  had 
originally  walked  into  Mr.  Masham's  office  in  answer 
to  an  advertisement.  Mr.  Masham  knew  nothing 
about  him,  but  he  knew  a  good  deal  about  character. 
"  That's  the  man  for  me,"  he  had  thought.  Mr. 
Barker  had  said  very  little,  but  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room  he  had  looked  austerely  at  the  pros- 
perous Mr.  Masham.  "  Yes,  that's  my  man," 
thought  Mr.  Masham  again.  He  knew  quite  well 
that  the  austerity  of  Mr.  Barker  was  not  personal  at 
all  but  the  natural  austerity  of  a  simple  and  upright 
heart.  He  was  correct.  It  would  never  have  oc- 
curred to  Mr.  Barker  to  doubt  the  propriety  of  an 
employer's  actions.  Such  liberties  didn't  enter  into 
his  theory  of  the  universe.  In  his  own  life  he  was 

15 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


a  man  of  the  most  rigid  conduct.  In  Balham  he  be- 
longed to  a  sect  which  deprecated  every  sort  of 
amusement  as  the  work  of  the  Devil.  Even  when  he 
had  to  pass  the  National  Gallery  Mr.  Barker  averted 
his  head.  And  yet  he  had  been  Mr.  Masham's  con- 
fidential clerk  for  years  without  suspecting  anything. 
It's  no  use  being  astonished  at  such  people  —  they 
do  exist  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  They're  inex- 
plicable. In  his  own  voiceless  way  Mr.  Barker  wor- 
shipped Mr.  Masham.  To  begin  with  he  had  been 
nearly  a  year  out  of  work  when  Mr.  Masham  engaged 
him,  and  when  you  have  five  children  all  under  nine 
and  an  ailing  wife  and  have  never  earned  more 
than  £3  a  week  the  state  of  your  affairs  does  not 
bear  contemplation.  But  what  really  won  Mr. 
Barker's  heart  was  something  that  happened  about 
a  year  after  he  had  entered  Mr.  Masham's  service. 
One  morning  when  he  had  brought  in  the  letters  as 
usual  and  was  waiting  silently  for  Mr.  Masham's 
instructions,  the  latter  suddenly  looked  up  and 
said,  "  What's  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  Barker?  " 
It  was  no  wonder  he  had  spoken  for  Mr.  Barker 
looked  terribly  white,  shaken,  and  broken-up. 
"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  sir,"  said  the 
literal  Mr.  Barker,  gazing  with  what  seemed  stern 
disapproval  at  his  employer,  "  but  I  have  family 
trouble  at  home."  "  What  family  trouble  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Masham.  "  My  wife  died  at  seven  o'clock  last 

16 


The  Two  Dependants 


night,"  replied  Mr.  Barker  firmly.  "  Good  Lord, 
man,  why  did  you  come  to  the  office  then?  "  ejacu- 
lated Mr.  Masham,  quite  forgetting  in  his  astonish- 
ment to  make  a  more  fitting  rejoinder.  Mr.  Barker 
did  not  reply.  He  did  not  think  there  was  any 
suitable  reply.  He  had  come  to  the  office  because  he 
always  had  to  come  to  the  office  every  day.  "  Get 
your  coat  and  hat  and  go  home  at  once,"  said  Mr. 
Masham.  Mr.  Barker  went  out  without  a  word. 
"  Stop,  come  back !  "  shouted  Mr.  Masham  all  of  a 
sudden.  He  was  very  red  in  the  face.  "  This  is  a 
bad  thing  for  you,  Barker,  I'm  afraid.  You  have 
my  most  sincere  condolences.  Aren't  you  left  with 
a  lot  of  small  children  or  something?  "  "  I  have  five 
children,"  answered  Mr.  Barker,  whose  sense  of 
decency  was  instinctively  shocked  by  these  personal 
conversations  with  an  employer.  "  Five  children," 
echoed  Mr.  Masham,  "  and  all  young,  dear  me !  And 
then  there'll  be  the  funeral.  Really,  Barker,  I'm 
very,  very  sorry  for  you.  And  I  dare  say  the  illness 
will  cost  you  a  pretty  penny.  Well,  well !  "  He  had 
gone  over  to  his  desk  and  unlocked  his  cash-box. 
"  Now,  Barker,  don't  thank  me  but  take  this.  No, 
I  won't  listen  to  a  word.  Take  it  and  go  home. 
You'll  find  it  useful.  Go  at  once,  Barker."  Mr. 
Barker  trembled,  bowed  stiffly,  and  turned  on 
his  heel.  Mr.  Masham  had  given  him  four  £5 
notes. 

17 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


A  less  simple  minded  man  might  have  resented  this 
charity  as  an  answer  to  his  grief,  but  Mr.  Barker 
was  not  complicated  in  this  sort  of  way.  He  took 
things  naturally.  Far  from  being  offended  he  was 
deeply  touched.  He  little  knew,  luckily,  that  the 
money  he  had  taken  really  belonged  to  an  old  lady, 
a  very  stupid  and  greedy  old  lady,  whom  Mr.  Masham 
had  just  relieved  of  £4,000  in  exchange  for  some 
worthless  certificates. 

It  was  from  this  one  act,  so  easily  performed,  that 
Mr.  Barker  had  come  to  venerate  Mr.  Masham  as 
the  best  and  kindest  of  men.  He  hardly  ever  spoke 
of  it;  he  was,  indeed,  scarcely  conscious  of  it  for  the 
most  part,  but  when  the  crash  came  he  showed  his 
devotion  in  the  only  way  in  his  power  —  he  stuck  to 
Mr.  Masham  without  asking  a  single  question.  He 
was  not  curious,  he  was  only  bewildered.  He  recog- 
nised the  hand  of  the  Devil  (who  was  a  definite  per- 
son to  Mr.  Barker)  and  that  sufficed  him.  His  brain 
worked  along  narrow  lines.  He  was  not  given  to 
independent  thought,  he  didn't  ask  himself  questions. 
Not  even  at  the  back  of  his  head  did  he  have  the 
slightest  doubt  of  Mr.  Masham's  innocence.  And, 
strangest  thing  of  all,  the  evidence  of  the  last  three 
days  had  made  no  difference.  From  the  very  begin- 
ning of  the  trial  he  had  sat  in  the  well  of  the  court, 
listening  with  a  grave  and  attentive  air  —  and  under- 
standing nothing.  It  was  outside  his  idea  of  things 

18 


The  Two  Dependants 


that  Mr.  Masham  could  have  committed  fraud,  and 
therefore  he  did  not  go  into  court  with  the  question, 
"  Is  he  innocent  or  guilty  ?  "  but  merely  with  the 
dumb  resignation  of  a  Christian  who  watches  the 
temporary  triumph  of  evil.  He  heard  sums  of 
money  mentioned,  he  saw  clients  whom  he  had  known 
for  years  denouncing  Mr.  Masham  in  the  most  out- 
rageous terms,  and  he  did  not  flinch.  No  whisper  of 
doubt  entered  his  heart.  Both  defence  and  prosecu- 
tion had  wished  to  subpoena  him,  but  both  had  finally 
decided  that  he  had  better  be  left  alone.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Masham  and  his  clerk  had  lunched  together 
every  day  of  the  trial.  They  were  rather  dismal 
lunches.  Mr.  Barker  was  not  apt  at  general  con- 
versation and  Mr.  Masham  saw  too  clearly  how 
things  were  trending  to  feel  cheerful.  Still  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  Barker,  perhaps  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  really  believed  in  him,  gave  him  an  odd 
and  unexpected  comfort.  He  tried  to  crack  a  few 
jokes,  but  not  a  smile  appeared  upon  the  morose 
countenance  of  the  faithful  clerk.  Mr.  Barker 
pitied  Mr.  Masham  profoundly,  but  he  did  not  show 
his  pity.  When  he  spoke  it  was  solely  of  business. 
They  did  not  discuss  the  trial.  Mr.  Masham  knew 
nothing  of  Mr.  Barker's  theories  about  the  Devil's 
complicity  in  his  downfall.  In  happier  days  they 
would  have  made  him  roar  with  laughter,  but  he 
would  probably  not  have  listened  now.  He  was  en- 

19 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


grossed  in  details  for  saving  the  wreck  of  his  busi- 
ness. He  plied  Mr.  Barker  with  questions,  he 
sketched  plans  for  the  future.  It  was  true  that  Mr. 
Barker  was  no  longer  his  servant,  but  he  still  felt 
a  sense  of  proprietorship  in  him.  His  conversation 
was  as  peremptory  as  ever.  In  Mr.  Barker,  also, 
there  was  not  the  least  change.  Thus  they  would 
talk  over  their  lunch,  while  secretly  gnawing  at  them 
beneath  their  words  was  a  sense  of  misery  and  hope- 
less disaster.  .  .  . 

It  was,  then,  the  face  of  his  ex-clerk  that  Mr. 
Masham  had  discerned  in  the  crowd.  "  Poor  old 
Barker,"  he  murmured  half-contemptuously.  Mr. 
Barker  did  not  put  his  thought  into  words.  At  that 
instant  counsel  raised  his  voice  for  an  unusually  elo- 
quent period.  Mr.  Masham  frowned.  "  Still  at  it," 
he  muttered  irritably ;  "  what's  he  saying  now  ?  "  and 
he  tried  to  concentrate  his  mind  anew.  But  the 
bustle  in  the  court  was  growing  louder.  All  at  once 
the  judge  rose,  the  usher  called  out  in  a  loud  voice, 
and  every  one  jumped  up.  The  Court  had  adjourned 
for  luncheon. 

Mr.  Masham  and  Mr.  Barker  met  at  the  appointed 
place.  Both  of  them  knew  that  it  would  be  their 
last  meeting,  for  it  was  obvious  that  the  trial  was 
about  to  end.  Mr.  Masham  had  a  great  deal  to  say 
and  he  began  to  talk  business  at  once.  Suddenly  he 
remarked :  — 

20 


The  Two  Dependants 


"  You  know,  Barker,  it'll  finish  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barker. 

"  And  you  know,  of  course,  what  the  result  will 
be?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barker  again,  in  exactly  the  same 
intonation. 

"  Well,  look  here,  Barker,  as  soon  as  it's  over  I 
want  you  to  go  at  once  to  my  house  and  tell  my  wife. 
You're  the  only  man  I  can  trust  to  do  that  properly. 
I  wouldn't  let  her  come  here,  of  course." 

"  I'm  to  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Masham?  "  faltered  the 
clerk. 

"  You  heard  me?  " 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

"  You  are  to  go  to  the  house  and  insist  on  seeing 
her  yourself.  And  impress  upon  her  that  the  news- 
paper reports  are  sure  to  be  nothing  but  a  pack  of 
lies.  Now  mind,  Barker,  you  are  to  tell  her  that  I 
sent  you  especially." 

Mr.  Barker  sighed.  It  was  so  deep  a  sigh  that 
his  former  master  asked  him  abruptly,  "  You  do  be- 
lieve in  me,  don't  you,  Barker?  " 

The  incorruptible  Mr.  Barker  looked  at  him  as 
though  he  had  not  heard  correctly. 

"  I  don't  think  about  it  at  all,  sir,"  he  said  de- 
liberately ;  "  I  know  that  you're  innocent." 

"  Thanks,  thanks,"  responded  Mr.  Masham. 
"  And  don't  you  ever  change  your  opinion,  Barker." 

£1 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


It  was  the  kind  of  remark  that  Mr.  Barker  did 
not  understand.  He  paid  no  notice  to  it.  But  he 
looked  sternly  at  Mr.  Masham  as  if  reprobating  his 
levity.  As  a  matter  of  fact  an  abysmal  gloom  had 
overspread  his  soul.  As  to  himself  and  his  five 
children  they  were  in  God's  hands,  but  as  to  Mr. 
Masham  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  been 
given  over  to  the  clutches  of  the  Devil.  A  conviction 
had  been  slowly  forming  in  his  brain  that  perhaps 
Mr.  Masham  ( who  was  addicted  to  strong  language ) 
was  an  infidel  and  that  this  affliction  had  come  upon 
him  as  an  awful  warning.  He  was  a  man  of  few 
words,  and  when  he  did  speak  his  tongue  reflected 
accurately  his  conventional  and  prosaic  mind,  but 
all  at  once  he  was  forced  to  say  in  an  almost  men- 
acing voice :  — 

"  Do  you  believe  in  God,  Mr.  Masham  ?  " 
"  Do  I  believe  in  God?  "  echoed  the  astounded  Mr. 
Masham;  "  do  I  believe  in  Divine  Providence?  No, 
Barker,  I  don't.  If  there  was  a  God  he  would  not 
have  brought  me  to  this  pass.  Do  you  hear  that, 
Barker?  That's  not  the  sort  of  thing  God  would 
do.  Here  am  I  punished  for  nothing  at  all.  Noth- 
ing! Simply  for  being  original.  Wouldn't  that 
shake  any  one's  belief  in  God  ?  "  He  spoke  with 
vehemence.  He  was  firmly  convinced  at  that  moment 
that  he  was  the  most  wronged  of  men.  "  Don't  talk 
to  me  about  religion !  I  spit  it  out !  Bah,  it  gives 


The  Two  Dependants 


me  a  nasty  taste  in  the  mouth!  No,  if  you  want 
me  to  believe  in  anything  I'll  —  I'll  believe  in  the 
Devil.  That's  more  in  my  line." 

Mr.  Barker  shuddered. 

"  Assuredly  there  is  a  Devil,"  he  murmured. 

But  Mr.  Masham  only  laughed  unpleasantly.  He 
had  suddenly  recollected  that,  after  all,  his  conduct 
had  not  been  quite  so  blameless. 

"  Get  along  with  you,  Barker !  "  he  said.  "  God 
or  Devil,  it's  all  one  to  me.  The  whole  thing's  non- 
sense. At  any  rate  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  senti- 
ment. I  feel,  well,  I'll  tell  what  I  feel,  I  feel  that 
Fm  cornered.  That's  the  only  thing  I  can  think 
of." 

Mr.  Barker  regarded  him  with  a  look  of  pain. 

"  Put  your  trust  in  God,  sir,"  he  whispered. 
"  Only  believe  in  Him.  There's  no  other  comfort. 
We  are  all  in  His  hands,  Mr.  Masham." 

Mr.  Masham  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  but  he 
could  not  stop  Mr.  Barker,  who  continued  hoarsely : 

"  Only  say,  *  Lord  I  believe,  help  Thou  my  un- 
belief.' Only  say  that,  sir,  and  everything  will  be 
well  with  you.5* 

"  Come,  stow  it,  Barker ! "  shouted  Mr.  Masham 
angrily.  "  What  on  earth's  the  matter  with  you 
to-day?  You're  talking  just  like  a  copy-book! 
Good  God,  man,  don't  you  realise  how  Fm  placed?  " 

Mr.  Barker  flushed. 

23 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  Remember  that  you're  an  innocent  man,  sir," 
he  mumbled. 

But  this  remark  did  not  seem  much  more  to  Mr. 
Masham's  liking. 

"  Yes,  innocent,  of  course.  Of  course  I'm  inno- 
cent. Every  one  knows  that  except  those  scoundrels. 
And  they  know  it  really.  And  don't  you  forget, 
Barker,  that  I'm  innocent  when  you  hear  people 
talking.  I  know  what  people  are.  They  won't 
leave  me  alone.  They'll  go  on  repeating  lies  about 
me  till  they  almost  come  to  believe  them.  Brutes ! 
But  we'll  have  the  laugh  on  them  one  of  these  days, 
Barker !  I  won't  be  in  there  all  my  life,  and  when  I 
come  out  we've  got  to  start  afresh.  Do  you  hear 
that?" 

"  I  shall  be  ready,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Barker  quietly. 

"  Yes,  Barker,  I  know  you  will  be.  You're  a  faith- 
ful friend.  I  can't  do  much  for  you  now  but  later 
—  yes,  I  shan't  forget.  And  here,  Barker,  I  want 
you  to  take  this  as  a  memento."  He  had  suddenly 
pulled  out  his  gold  watch  and  chain.  "  Don't  be 
afraid.  It  doesn't  belong  to  the  creditors.  It's 
mine  right  enough.  Or,  rather,  it's  my  wife's. 
Everything  I've  got  on  is.  Thank  goodness  she  has 
a  little  something  left.  I  told  her  I  wanted  to  give 
them  you.  '  I  want  to  present  Barker  with  the 
watch  and  chain/  I  said ;  '  he's  the  only  honest  man 
I  know.  He's  stuck  to  me  through  thick  and  thin.' 


The  Two  Dependants 


She  agreed  at  once.  She's  got  a  great  opinion  of 
you.  You  remember  the  wreath  she  sent  when  your 
wife  died?  Oh,  yes,  we'll  come  out  on  top  yet,  Bar- 
ker." 

Mr.  Barker  was  deeply  embarrassed.  He  took  the 
watch  and  chain  mechanically. 

"  You  —  you  are  too  good  to  me,  sir,"  he  mut- 
tered in  a  broken  voice.  "  I  don't  like  to  take  it.  I 
don't  really,  sir.  You  have  always  been  too  good  to 
me.  And  to  think  that  now  —  Oh,  sir,  the  Devil  is 
frightfully  strong ! " 

"  That's  all  right,  Barker,"  said  Mr.  Masham, 
waving  his  remarks  aside.  "  Listen  to  me.  I'm  not 
likely  to  see  you  again  for  a  long  time,  but  I  want 
you  to  keep  in  touch  with  me  through  my  wife. 
You've  got  a  memo,  of  all  these  matters  we've  been 
discussing  the  last  few  days.  Above  all,  follow  the 
markets.  Don't  let  anything  escape  you.  We  have 
to  keep  the  skeleton  together,  clients  and  all.  That'll 
be  the  trouble,  the  clients.  So  many  of  them  are 
hopeless.  I  know  the  sort  of  thing  —  deluge  the 
Official  Receiver  with  abusive  letters  and  think  they'll 
keep  me  from  ever  holding  my  head  up  again. 
Charming,  isn't  it?  But  they  won't  succeed.  Not 
they !  And  don't  you  forget,  Barker,  that  it  is  you 
who  have  got  charge  of  my  reputation  now.  I've  al- 
ways regarded  you  as  a  sort  of  partner  —  well,  not 
a  partner  exactly  —  but  you  know  what  I  mean. 

25 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


And  depend  upon  it,  anything  you  can  do  for  our 
future  will  repay  itself  a  thousandfold." 

He  arose  from  his  seat  and  Mr.  Barker,  who  felt 
dazed,  rose  also. 

"  Remember  I  am  relying  absolutely  on  you,"  said 
Mr.  Masham  impressively. 

Mr.  Barker  bent  his  head.  He  was  deplorably 
lacking  in  the  appropriate  words  for  such  an  occa- 
sion. He  could  not  speak,  but  if  he  had  spoken  it 
would  have  been  to  beg  Mr.  Masham  to  fall  upon  his 
knees  that  very  night.  When  he  was  alone  he  made 
his  way  back  slowly  to  the  well  of  the  court.  The 
last  stage  of  the  trial  was  beginning.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Barker  waited  till  the  very  end  and  then 
wandered  out  into  the  warm  sunlight  of  the  May 
evening.  No  one  noticed  him.  He  was  not  a  per- 
son who  attracted  attention.  There  was  nothing 
remarkable  about  him.  In  the  whole  of  his  life  he 
had  never  unburdened  himself  to  any  one,  not  only 
because  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  but  because  he 
had  nothing  to  unburden.  He  knew  what  love  was, 
and  poverty,  and  grief,  but  he  accepted  them  with- 
out a  word.  He  had  no  obscure  yearnings.  When 
he  prayed  night  and  morning  he  did  so  with  fervour, 
but  along  recognised  lines.  He  did  not  ask  God  to 
remove  his  doubts,  because  he  had  none.  His  prayers 
were  long,  earnest,  but  quite  impersonal.  And  yet 
he  used  to  rise  from  them  as  though  refreshed  by  the 

26 


The  Two  Dependants 


Water  of  Life.  Never  had  he  felt  any  qualms  and 
never  had  he  felt  superior  to  any  one.  He  was  con- 
vinced that  Christianity,  as  taught  in  his  chapel, 
led  to  salvation  and  that  most  people  were  irre- 
trievably damned,  but  he  was  not  arrogant,  he  was 
humble  —  or  rather,  perhaps  he  was  nothing  at  all. 
Indeed,  he  had  had  no  philosophy  of  conduct  other 
than  the  natural  inclination  to  do  what  he  knew  was 
right.  But  as  he  stood  there,  blinking  in  the  sun- 
light, he  realised  all  at  once  very  dimly  that  the 
machinery  of  life  was,  as  it  were,  imperfect  at  the 
core.  He  recalled  Mr.  Masham's  last  look  at  him 
from  the  dock.  He  had  forgotten  somehow  to  ac- 
count for  everything  by  reference  to  the  Devil.  The 
Devil  was  a  real  individual  to  Mr.  Barker,  but  he 
was  real  in  a  religious  sense  —  that  is  to  say  he  was 
real  in  a  different  plane.  Mr.  Barker  had  accepted 
his  poverty,  the  death  of  his  wife,  all  the  ills  of 
life  without  losing  faith  in  the  propriety  of  existence. 
He  believed  in  a  glorious  resurrection.  He  took 
things  naturally.  But  perhaps,  just  because  it  was 
so  bizarre,  so  utterly  outside  all  his  experience,  he. 
could  not,  illogical  as  it  was,  see  in  Mr.  Masham's 
fate  anything  but  a  misfortune,  which,  though  due 
to  his  own  infidelity  or  the  sheer  wickedness  of  the 
Devil,  was  yet  monstrously  inexcusable.  He  did 
not,  of  course,  put  it  clearly  to  himself.  It  was  not 
clear,  it  was  vague;  so  vague,  indeed,  that  he  only 

27 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


felt  an  uneasy,  gloomy  cloud  upon  his  mind.  Stand- 
ing on  the  pavement  he  seemed  lost  in  abstraction. 
The  frown  on  his  forehead  gave  his  face  a  more  than 
usually  stern  and  uncompromising  expression.  No 
one  regarded  him.  He  was  exactly  like  thousands  of 
other  solitary  men.  He  stood  there  for  several  min- 
utes before  he  remembered  what  he  had  still  to 
do.  ... 

Mr.  Masham's  house  was  situated  in  the  North  of 
London,  in  one  of  those  districts  full  of  lanes  and 
enclosed  gardens  where  the  early  summer  nights 
throw  a  secret  veil  of  romance  over  blurred  streets 
and  distant  cries.  It  stood  back  in  its  own  grounds 
and  in  the  falling  dusk  the  livid  colour  of  its  walls 
seemed  to  glow  within  the  dark  circle  of  trees.  The 
air  had  freshened  in  the  warm,  sweet  gusts  of  the  ap- 
proaching night  and  as  Mr.  Barker  trudged  heavily 
up  the  drive  he  smelt  the  grass  around  him  as  though 
knee-deep  in  dewy  fields.  Not  a  light  shone  upon  the 
sombre  face  of  the  house.  At  the  best  of  times  Mr. 
Barker  was  not  romantic.  Romance  would  have 
frightened  him,  it  would  have  smacked  of  the  scarlet 
woman.  But  at  the  present  moment  he  noticed  noth- 
ing at  all.  He  only  wanted  to  get  to  the  house  and 
deliver  his  message. 

He  reached  the  door  at  last  and  ringing  the  bell 
he  waited  patiently.  He  heard  steps  coming  towards 
him  in  the  hall,  but  before  the  door  could  be  opened 

28 


The  Two  Dependants 


a  window  was  thrown  up  above  him  and  a  voice  called 
out,  "  Is  this  you,  Hubert?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  answered  Mr.  Barker  gravely. 

Down  slammed  the  window  with  a  crash.  At  the 
same  instant  the  figure  of  a  servant  girl  appeared 
in  the  open  door. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  Mrs.  Masham  "  said  Mr. 
Barker. 

"  Tell  me  first,  it's  about  him,  isn't  it  ?  "  whispered 
the  girl. 

"  Inform  Mrs.  Masham  that  a  man  is  waiting  to 
see  her,"  said  Mr.  Barker,  looking  straight  in  front 
of  him. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  cried  the  other  woman  from  the 
top  of  the  staircase. 

"  It's  Mr.  Barker,  ma'am,"  answered  the  clerk, 
raising  his  voice. 

There  was  no  response  but  he  thought  he  heard 
something  like  a  stifled  scream.  Above  him  a  door 
shut  loudly  in  the  stillness. 

"  You  had  better  come  in,"  said  the  girl,  scrutinis- 
ing him  vindictively. 

He  entered  without  saying  a  word.  The  door 
closed  behind  him  and  the  girl,  pointing  to  a  chair, 
disappeared  at  once.  The  lamp  had  not  been  lit 
and  the  flicker  of  the  dusk  filtered  in  through  the  two 
long  narrow  windows  of  the  hall.  Mr.  Barker  did 
not  sit  down,  he  did  not  even  move  from  the  mat. 

29 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


After  a  time  the  girl  reappeared  and  beckoned  to 
him  to  follow  her.  She  led  him  upstairs  into  a  big 
room  lit  by  one  shaded  lamp  upon  a  table.  And 
there,  behind  the  lamp,  sat  the  lady  he  had  come  to 
see.  She  was  one  of  these  handsome,  fast-looking 
women  of  about  thirty-five  who  seem  to  reach  that 
age  at  a  bound  and  to  remain  there  for  twenty  years 
or  so,  in  short  the  sort  of  woman  who  looks  at  her 
best  in  a  foreign  casino,  where,  in  the  Continental 
style,  she  can  wear  with  her  high-necked  evening 
frock  an  enormous  hat  with  a  green  ostrich  plume 
drooping  over  it.  She  was  dressed  expensively  and 
with  an  eye  to  her  rather  flamboyant  cast  of  beauty. 
But  at  that  moment  she  was  not  looking  her  best; 
she  was  looking  distraught.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
tragically  upon  Mr.  Barker.  He  inclined  his  head. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?  "  she  flung  at  him. 

"  Mr.  Masham,  ma'am,  said  I  was  to  come  myself 
to  tell  you — " 

"  Tell  me  what?  " 

"  That  he  has  been  unjustly  sentenced  to  eighteen 
months'  imprisonment." 

"  Ach !  "  said  Mrs.  Masham,  recoiling  in  her  chair 
and  staring  at  him  like  a  tigress. 

"  It  is  a  miscarriage  of  justice,"  muttered  Mr. 
Barker. 

In  his  baggy  trousers,  with  his  worn  coat  but- 
toned across  his  chest,  big,  broad-shouldered,  very 

30 


The  Two  Dependants 


strong,  with  his  fanatical  eyes  and  the  high  cheek- 
bones of  a  Scotsman,  he  stood  stiffly  before  her, 
like  an  out  of  work  clerk  come  to  beg  for  assistance. 

Mrs.  Masham  signed  to  him  to  approach  closer. 

"  Tell  me  everything,"  she  gasped. 

Mr.  Barker  told  her  everything.  His  indignation 
made  him  eloquent.  Mr.  Masham  seemed  like  some 
Christian  Saint  encompassed  by  the  armies  of  the 
Fiend. 

"  And  to-night  they'll  take  him  and  put  him  into 
that  awful  dress !  "  broke  suddenly  from  his  listener. 

"  It  is  only  the  soul  that  is  of  importance,  ma'am," 
answered  Mr.  Barker ;  "  they  cannot  touch  his  soul." 

"  A  convict,"  wailed  Mrs.  Masham.  "  Oh,  my 
God,  my  God!" 

"  Use  that  name  in  supplication,  ma'am,"  said  Mr. 
Barker  solemnly.  "  He  is  our  one  hope.  Only  this 
afternoon  I  begged  Mr.  Masham,  yes,  ma'am,  I 
begged  him  to  pray.  There  is  comfort  in  prayer.  I 
—  I  prayed  on  the  'bus  on  my  way  here  and  I  felt 
strengthened." 

"  You  believe  in  prayer  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Masham 
incredulously.  She  appeared  quite  recovered 
strangely  enough. 

"  I  do,  ma'am,"  responded  Mr.  Barker,  his  whole 
face  shining  with  renewed  faith.  "  Oh,  ma'am,  I  too 
have  known  what  sorrow  is.  But  God's  mercy  is  as 
boundless  as  the  ocean.  He  never  forgets  his  serv- 

31 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


ants.  When  my  wife  died  He  sent  your  husband  to 
comfort  me.  It  was  not  what  Mr.  Masham  gave 
me,  it  was  the  knowledge  that  God  had  sent  him  that 
was  balm  to  my  heart.  My  prayer  was  answered." 

At  these  words  Mrs.  Masham  involuntarily  started. 

"  Yes,  I  recollect,"  she  said  slowly,  looking  at  Mr. 
Barker. 

"  And  if  you  pray,  ma'am,  your  prayer  also  will 
be  answered,"  added  the  clerk. 

"  Then  you  really  are  convinced  of  Mr.  Masham's 
innocence?  " 

'*  I  am  convinced  of  it,"  replied  Mr.  Barker  ear- 
nestly. "  Listen,  ma'am.  God's  ways  are  not  man's 
ways.  It  is  terrible  that  an  innocent  man  should 
suffer.  Only  be  sure  that  God  never  does  anything 
unwisely.  Yes,  we  must  be  sure  of  that.  Oh,  ma'am, 
one  must  cling  on  to  that." 

Mrs.  Masham  was  still  regarding  him  intently. 

"  And  so  God  sent  Mr.  Masham  to  you  when  your 
wife  died,"  she  mused. 

«  He  did,  ma'am." 

"  And  now  He  has  sent  Mr.  Masham  to  prison." 

Mr.  Barker  did  not  answer  at  once.  Again  he 
felt  the  awful  cloud  of  doubt  upon  his  heart. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  the  Evil  One,"  he  whispered  at 
length. 

"  Yes,  perhaps  it  was,"  conceded  Mrs.  Masham. 
"  That's  a  way  out  of  it.  Ah,  what  a  Father !  All 


The  Two  Dependants 


the  same,  when  you  pray,  pray  for  me  too,   Mr. 
Barker." 

Mr.  Barker  bowed.     He  felt  very  uncomfortable. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Barker,"  her  voice  pursued 
him  relentlessly,  "  your  argument  seems  to  me  to 
amount  to  this,  that  every  evil  is  balanced  by  some 
sort  of  a  good.  God  sends  Mr.  Masham  to  com- 
fort you  in  your  grief  and  then  he  sends  him  to  prison 
so  that  you  may  comfort  me  in  mine.  It's  a  simple 
explanation,  only  isn't  it  rather  jesuistical  —  evil 
that  good  may  come  of  it?  I've  heard  that  in  Russia 
people  commit  crimes  just  to  experience  the  joy  of 
repentance.  But  where  does  that  sort  of  reasoning 
land  one?  Can  you  tell  me  that?  Besides,  I  ask 
you,  is  the  balance  a  fair  one  ?  " 

"  The  Devil  is  always  prowling  about,  ma'am," 
muttered  Mr.  Barker  with  most  unusual  irrelevancy. 
He  was  bewildered  by  the  turn  of  the  conversation 
(which  seemed  to  find  a  vile  echo  in  his  own  heart) 
and  he  stood  there  helpless  before  her,  feebly  rubbing 
his  hands. 

"  Yes,  he  never  stops  prowling  and  prowling,"  he 
muttered  again. 

Mrs.  Masham  could  hardly  keep  herself  from 
laughing  outright  —  he  looked  so  exactly  as  if  he 
were  just  going  to  produce  a  pen  from  behind  his 
ear.  "  So  this  is  Hubert's  clerk,  is  it  ?  "  she  thought, 
staring  at  him  with  interest. 

SS 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


The  discussion  had  languished  very  suddenly. 
The  reflection  of  the  lamp,  widening  in  the  dark, 
seemed  to  enclose  them  both,  as  though  they  had 
come  there  to  listen  and  not  to  talk. 

"  Did  my  husband  give  you  any  messages  for  me?  " 
she  enquired  after  a  pause. 

"  He  did,  ma'am."  Mr.  Barker  delivered  them 
awkwardly. 

"  I  see.  Well,  when  can  you  come  and  talk  to 
me  about  his  affairs,  Mr.  Barker?  Can  you  come 
on  Saturday?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  About  five  in  the  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  about  five  in  the  afternoon,"  repeated  Mr. 
Barker. 

He  was  turning  to  go  when  Mrs.  Masham  asked 
quietly,  "  Did  he  give  you  the  watch  and  chain,  Mr. 
Barker?  " 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  indeed  he  did.  Here  they  are  in 
my  pocket.  And  you,  ma'am  —  and  that  wreath 
you  sent  —  I  have  not  deserved  anything  like 
this." 

Mrs.  Masham  smiled. 

"  You  forget  that  you  are  our  friend,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

After  he  had  left  the  house,  Mrs.  Masham  re- 
mained for  a  long  time  sitting  motionless  in  her  chair 
by  the  open  window.  She  felt  a  delicious  fatigue  in 


The  Two  Dependants 


all  her  limbs  and,  slowly  stretching  herself,  her  supple 
body  seemed  to  tingle  from  end  to  end.  The  whis- 
pers of  the  night,  floating  mysteriously  into  the  room, 
filled  her  with  a  vague,  happy  unrest.  From  time  to 
time  half-formed  pleasurable  ideas  seemed  to  rise 
like  bubbles  to  the  surface  of  her  brain.  She  made 
no  attempt  to  analyse  them.  A  glowing,  languorous 
sensation  had  possession  of  her  and  she  yielded  her- 
self completely  to  it.  At  midnight  her  maid  ven- 
tured to  come  into  the  room  to  ask  her  whether  she 
would  not  go  to  bed. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Masham  in  a  re- 
signed voice. 

She  allowed  her  maid  to  undress  her  without  ut- 
tering a  word.  But  after  she  had  left  the  room  Mrs. 
Masham  did  not  immediately  get  into  bed.  Sitting 
before  her  mirror  she  continued  to  gaze  pensively  at 
her  own  image.  She  had  wrapped  a  sky-blue  dress- 
ing-gown over  her  white  night-dress  and  with  her 
hair  gracefully  arranged  for  the  night,  the  powder 
lying  still  upon  her  cheeks,  she  looked  younger,  more 
blooming,  more  bewitching  than  a  woman  of  twenty- 
five.  Her  head  was  poised  lightly  upon  her  left- 
hand,  she  breathed  as  easily  and  softly  as  a  cat 
dozing  upon  the  hearthrug.  A  sense  of  well-being, 
growing  deeper  with  the  advance  of  sleepiness,  made 
her  sigh  with  content.  In  the  mirror  opposite  she 
saw  the  reflection  of  her  charming  features,  of  her 

85 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


eyes,  especially,  with  the  long  lashes  that  had  been 
so  much  admired  and  she  noticed  that  the  reflection 
was  smiling  at  her  as  though  in  pleasure.  Mrs. 
Masham  did  not  know  that  she  had  smiled.  "  And 
he  is  in  prison  to-night,"  she  thought  all  at  once. 
Somehow  it  did  not  worry  her  very  much.  "  He 
must  have  been  at  it  for  a  long  time,"  she  continued 
critically.  "  Well,  I  wonder  if  it  will  change  him." 
She  began  to  think  of  her  married  life.  It  had  not 
been  particularly  successful.  On  the  other  hand  it 
had  been  exactly  what  she  always  thought  it  would  be. 
It  had  not  disappointed  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Mrs.  Masham  had  married  "  above  her."  Her  origin 
was  obscure.  She  did  not  herself  know  whether  she 
had  been  born  in  Liverpool  or  Sydney.  She  had 
had  an  unfortunate  affair  in  Australia  when  she 
was  twenty  and  had  come  over  to  England  with  the 
idea  of  cutting  herself  quite  adrift  from  her  family, 
whose  attitude  towards  their  erring  daughter  struck 
her  as  merely  absurd.  She  had  not  heard  from  them 
from  that  day  to  this  and  if  she  had  she  would  not 
have  answered.  She  had  not  gone  "  on  the  streets," 
which  had  been  her  first  intention,  because  she  had 
speedily  realised  that  there  was  no  future  in  that. 
Instead,  she  had  become  a  waitress  in  some  fashion- 
able City  tea-rooms.  The  life  suited  her.  She  had 
quickly  developed  the  arts  that  appear  necessary  for 
this  employment,  the  haughty  yet  familiar  air,  the 

36 


The  Two  Dependants 


over-exaggerated  lady-like  voice,  the  enticing  way  of 
showing  rather  more  than  the  ankle  by  a  mere  flick 
of  the  skirt.  She  had  had  innumerable  trips  up  the 
River  at  other  people's  expense  and  she  was  very  well 
acquainted  with  Brighton.  Yes,  the  life  suited  her, 
but  it  did  not  satisfy  all  her  ambition.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-six  she  had  determined  to  marry.  She 
could  have  done  so  several  times  before  because,  be- 
sides being  very  good-looking,  she  had  always  re- 
tained that  outward  air  of  reserve  and  decorum  which 
quite  fascinates  sensuous  young  men.  But  it  was 
not  until  she  met  Mr.  Masham  that  she  could  make 
up  her  mind.  Like  many  loose-minded  women  she 
had  certain  curious  ideals  of  a  half-formed  and 
dreamy  nature.  Unknown  to  any  one  but  herself, 
one  of  the  chief  things  that  had  decided  her  to  be- 
come a  waitress  at  the  tea-rooms  was  the  thought 
that  she  could  lie  in  bed  every  morning,  doing  noth- 
ing, hardly  thinking  indeed,  but  just  letting  her 
thoughts  roam  at  will  through  the  voluptuously 
romantic  fancies  of  her  brain.  For  some  reason  or 
other  Mr.  Masham  had  appealed  to  these  fancies. 
Besides,  she  had  ascertained  that  he  was  well-off. 
He  was  then  at  the  very  beginning  of  his  great 
career  and  used  to  come  into  the  tea-rooms  every 
afternoon  breathing  success  and  geniality  at  every 
pore.  She  had  set  herself  to  catch  him  and  it  had 
proved  easy.  Her  devices  were  familiar  and  Mr. 

37 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Masham  had  capitulated  at  once.  In  a  fortnight  he 
was  at  her  feet. 

"  And  I  will  not  have  to  do  any  house-keeping  at 
all?  "  she  had  insisted,  looking  at  him  tenderly. 

"  Of  course  not.  You  can  do  exactly  what  you 
like,"  had  exclaimed  the  enraptured  Mr.  Masham, 
"  you  can  lie  in  bed  the  whole  time  if  you  like." 

Before  his  future  wife's  gaze  the  real  world  seemed 
to  be  opening  at  last.  She  had  shut  her  eyes  to  con- 
ceal from  him  a  look  of  triumph. 

"  And  let  us  live  somewhere  quiet,  where  we  can 
have  a  garden,"  she  had  begun  again,  "where  we  can 
hear  the  bees  early  in  the  morning." 

"  Wherever  you  want,  my  darling,"  had  answered 
Mr.  Masham,  embracing  her. 

And  so  everything  was  settled  according  to  her 
wishes.  She  had  never  been  near  the  City  since. 
Mr.  Masham's  passion  for  her  had  lasted  fully  a 
year,  and  because  of  her  discretion,  her  good-nature, 
and  her  fine  appearance  he  still  retained  an  affection 
for  her.  She  knew  beforehand  that  it  would  be  like 
this.  She  knew  also  that  her  own  feeling  would  not 
be  permanent.  But  fortunately  they  had  not  got 
on  each  other's  nerves.  She  allowed  him  to  go  his 
own  way.  His  infidelities  did  not  worry  her  in  the 
least.  (It  is  not  roues  that  women  are  frightened  of, 
but  idealists.)  She  was  sure  of  her  position.  She 
was  wise  enough  to  make  no  mistakes.  And  with- 

38 


The  Two  Dependants 


drawing  herself,  as  it  were,  from  the  world,  she  fell 
back  more  and  more  upon  the  vague,  voluptuous 
fancies  of  her  mind.  In  her  long  dreams,  lasting 
from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year,  she  awaited 
something  —  something  thrilling  beyond  words.  She 
was  not  impatient.  The  whispers  were  far-off,  low, 
vibrating  within  her  soul.  Moreover,  she  was  rich. 
She  had  attended  to  that.  She  had  made  him  settle 
money  on  her.  She  had  always  foreseen  the  possi- 
bility of  catastrophe,  and  he,  too,  had  always  foreseen 
it  and  had  been  only  too  glad  to  settle  the  money. 
It  was  a  large  sum,  the  outcome  of  an  almost  legiti- 
mate speculation  in  Arizona  copper,  and  it  was  in- 
vested in  the  surest  of  four  per  cents.  The  very 
house  belonged  to  her. 

Yes,  she  was  safe.  Was  it  this  thought,  perhaps, 
that  made  her  smile  as  she  sat  before  her  mirror,  or 
was  it  some  other  thought,  unformed,  light  as  the  air, 
strangely  alluring?  She  did  not  ask  herself.  She 
was  getting  sleepier  every  second.  She  felt  utterly 
at  peace  with  the  world.  The  shock  of  her  husband's 
conviction  had,  in  fact,  but  ruffled  the  surface  of  her 
life  for  an  instant.  As  for  the  social  stigma,  that 
did  not  worry  her  at  all.  She  had  not  been  reared 
in  those  circles  and  in  her  heart  such  things  meant 
nothing  to  her.  Their  friends  were  people  like  them- 
selves, men  with  flashy  wives,  bridge  players  and 
motorists,  the  hopeless,  unmagnanimous  drones  of 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


the  new-rich.  She  did  not  care  a  bit  whether  she 
ever  saw  any  of  them  again  "  I  shall  lie  in  bed  all 
day  to-morrow,"  she  thought  luxuriously.  She  rose, 
divested  herself  of  her  dressing-gown,  and  after 
standing  for  a  minute  looking  down  at  her  feet,  she 
climbed  into  bed  and  switched  off  the  light.  "  Yes, 
all  day  long,"  she  thought  again,  smiling  in  the  dark- 
ness. .  .  . 

It  is  a  long  way  from  Hampstead  to  Balham,  but 
after  his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Masham  Mr.  Barker 
had  walked  home  the  whole  distance.  He  walked 
quickly,  observing  nothing,  reflecting  gloomily  as 
he  went.  His  interview  with  Mrs.  Masham  had  only 
deepened  the  cloud  upon  his  mind.  "  Withdraw  not 
the  light  of  Thy  countenance,"  he  whispered  all  at 
once.  A  net  of  irreconcilable  questions  seemed  to 
open  before  him.  God  —  the  Devil  —  Divine  Good- 
ness !  He  thought  of  his  late  master  and  of  what  he 
was  suffering  at  that  moment.  It  filled  him  with  an- 
guish. His  grief  expressed  itself  in  the  forbidding 
and  stern  expression  of  his  face.  He  did  not  think 
of  himself,  of  his  bleak  future,  he  did  not  even  think 
of  his  five  children,  but  he  prayed  that  the  frown 
of  God  might  pass  away  from  "  Thy  servant  Hubert 
Percival  Masham."  He  was  single-minded,  without 
guile,  and  the  complex  nature  of  human  affairs  had 
never  presented  itself  to  him  before  this  day.  He 
had  no  resource  but  in  prayer  (couched  in  strictly 

40 


The  Two  Dependants 


Biblical  language)  for  his  sorrows  and  for  his 
doubts.  Of  Mrs.  Masham  he  did  not  think  at  all. 
When  he  reached  home  he  found  everything  in 
darkness.  The  widow  of  the  fishmonger  who,  for  a 
small  weekly  sum,  had  been  in  daily  attendance  since 
the  death  of  his  wife  had  already  retired  to  her 
lodgings  across  the  way.  He  was  alone  in  the 
house,  because  a  few  days  before  his  sister  had  ap- 
peared and  carried  off  his  children  to  her  husband's 
farm  for  their  annual  holiday.  Groping  his  way 
through  the  passage  Mr.  Barker  descended  the  iron 
steps  that  led  into  his  little  garden.  Even  there, 
in  the  shabby  patch  surrounded  by  back-yards  and 
the  blank  walls  of  houses,  the  cool  fragrance  of  the 
hour  had  penetrated  with  its  exquisite  stillness.  The 
cries  of  a  remote  street-market  came  muffled  upon 
the  ear  just  as  night  itself  had  softened  all  the 
squalor  of  the  scene  into  some  magic  labyrinth  or 
terraced  wilderness.  And  upon  Mr.  Barker's  heart, 
too,  a  stillness  had  begun  to  fall,  sweet  and  strange 
out  of  the  past.  He  stood  for  a  long  time  looking 
up  at  the  sky.  Tenderly  floated  the  unbidden  mem- 
ories about  him  like  passionate,  faint  whispers  of 
dead  lips.  Suddenly  he  trembled  as  though  he  had 
seen  a  ghost  and,  all  the  spell  about  him  shattering 
without  a  sound,  he  went,  very  cold,  lonely,  and 
despairing,  back  into  the  house.  Before  going  to 
bed  he  prayed  for  half  an  hour. 

4,1 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


By  instinct  and  of  necessity  Mr.  Barker  was  an 
industrious  man.  But  with  Mr.  Masham's  convic- 
tion a  great  lassitude  seemed  to  have  taken  hold  of 
him.  When  he  awoke  next  morning  his  first  thought 
was  this,  "  I  must  get  hold  of  some  work."  But,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  made  no  efforts  in  that  direc- 
tion. He  spent  all  the  day  digging  in  the  back- 
garden.  And  even  when  the  next  day  came  he  could 
decide  on  nothing.  He  dreaded  his  second  interview 
with  Mrs.  Masham.  Without  knowing  it  himself  he 
had  become  terrified  at  the  idea  of  religious  en- 
counters. But,  as  the  hour  approached,  he  dressed 
himself  as  though  he  were  going  to  Chapel  and 
started  forth. 

He  found  Mrs.  Masham  sitting  in  her  favourite 
window-seat.  She  was  all  in  black.  Her  face  was 
composed  but  the  gesture  with  which  she  greeted 
Mr.  Barker  and  beckoned  him  to  a  chair  was  lan- 
guid as  with  grief  and  the  exhaustion  of  sleepless 
nights. 

"  I  hare  a  lot  to  talk  to  you  about,  Mr.  Barker, 
but  I  am  weary," 

Mr.  Barker  looked  at  her  with  solicitude. 

"  I  can  see  no  light  anywhere." 

"  Providence  is  inscrutable,  ma'am,"  replied  the 
calvanistic  Mr.  Barker. 

"  Is  that  only  one  way  of  saying  it's  blind?  Why 
should  the  innocent  suffer  with  the  guilty?  " 

ift 


The  Two  Dependants 


This  was  precisely  the  question  Mr.  Barker  had 
been  asking  himself  during  the  last  two  days. 

He  knit  his  brows. 

"  You  forget  the  Devil,  ma'am,"  he  answered 
severely. 

"  No,  I  remember  all  you  said.  But  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  understand  you.  Listen,  Mr.  Barker  —  who 
rules  the  world,  God  or  the  Devil?  " 

"  God,"  responded  Mr.  Barker. 

"  Then  God  can  be  the  Devil  but  the  Devil  can't 
be  God.  No,  don't  stare  at  me  like  that,  Mr. 
Barker.  I  daresay  I  put  it  wrongly.  Perhaps  this 
is  better  —  if  there  is  a  Devil  it  was  God  who  made 
him,  because  He  is  accountable  for  everything.  Do 
you  agree  to  that?  " 

"  Go  on,  ma'am,"  muttered  Mr.  Barker  desper- 
ately. 

"  Why,  what  more  is  there  to  say  ?  God  has  only 
to  speak  the  word  and  there  would  be  no  more  wick- 
edness, no  more  suffering,  and  no  more  doubt.  All 
would  be  as  it  was  in  the  first  days  of  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  and,  made  perfect  as  Angels,  we  should  praise 
Him  unceasingly  with  loud  shouts  of  Hosanna  in 
the  Highest.  That  is  the  picture;  and  yet  you  — 
you  who  believe  it  is  all  possible  —  try  to  excuse  God 
for  making  the  world  as  it  really  is." 

"  I  believe  also  in  Original  Sin,"  said  Mr.  Barker 
unsteadily. 

43 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  What,  something  that  God  has  no  power  over  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  ma'am.  God  has  power  over 
everything." 

"Then  how  do  you  account  for  Original  Sin?" 

"  It  is  born  in  man,"  said  Mr.  Barker  with  con- 
viction. 

"  Yes,  but  why  should  it  be  if  God  is  all  power- 
ful? " 

"  Because  man  is  vile." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  who  created  man  vile?  God,  of 
course.  Therefore  it's  God  who  is  to  blame." 

"  No,  ma'am,  God  is  not  to  blame.  Man  fell  and 
God  punished  him.  Do  not  take  God's  name  in 
vain." 

Mrs.  Masham  did  not  try  to  continue  the  argu- 
ment but  after  a  pause  she  remarked,  "  All  the  same, 
it  was  unjust  to  punish  an  innocent  man." 

"  There  is  still  the  life  to  come,"  insisted  Mr. 
Barker.  "  That's  where  everything  will  be  made 
plain  to  us."  He  looked  at  Mrs.  Masham.  "  And 
sighing  and  sorrow  shall  be  no  more,"  he  added 
gently. 

Mrs.  Masham  cast  down  her  eyes.  "  And  if  all 
this  is  true,  Mr.  Barker,"  she  replied  very  softly, 
"  do  you  think  it  likely  that  it  will  comfort  Mr. 
Masham  in  his  cell  as  completely  as  it  comforts  us 
here?  "  She  did  not  wait  for  a  response  but  added 
immediately,  "  Don't  be  angry  with  me.  You  know, 

44. 


The  Two  Dependants 


I  speak  to  you  like  this  because  I  trust  you.  It  is  a 
comfort  for  me  to  speak,  and  I  need  comfort.  Make 
allowances  for  me,  Mr.  Barker." 

"  My  powers  of  comfort  are  very  poor,  ma'am," 
said  the  clerk. 

He  felt  unable  to  speak,  unable  to  mention  the 
word  "  prayer." 

"  I  am  thinking  of  my  husband,  Mr.  Barker.  Ah, 
what  suffering!  Where  is  your  God  of  mercy 
now?  " 

"  His  face  is  hidden  from  us,  ma'am,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Barker  hopelessly. 

"  A  God  of  Mercy  hides  His  face  from  His  own 
children?  No,  no,  that  won't  do!  It's  not  a  God 
at  all,  it's  a  Devil.  There's  no  such  person  as  God. 
It's  all  a  delusion,  a  delusion,  Mr.  Barker,  a 
myth." 

Mr.  Barker  reeled. 

"  Don't  — "  he  murmured. 

Mrs.  Masham  seemed  to  be  peering  into  his  eyes. 

"  Don't,  please  don't  blaspheme,  ma'am,"  he  stam- 
mered, and  he  put  out  his  hand  as  though  to  ward 
off  an  evil  apparition. 

"  Well,  I  leave  you  with  your  just  and  merciful 
God,"  she  said  contemptuously,  and  she  got  up  and 
went  out  of  the  door. 

Mr.  Barker  remained  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  like  a  man  under  a  spell.  Through  the 

45 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


open  French  windows  a  bar  of  light  streamed  across 
the  carpet,  enveloped  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  dancing 
motes  carrying  with  it  the  scent  of  the  bright  sum- 
mer. But  he  did  not  move.  All  his  features  were 
contracted  as  in  pain.  And  alone,  very  still,  like 
an  outworn  statue,  he  seemed  to  ponder  the  solution 
of  the  Universe.  After  a  long  time  he  sighed,  looked 
round  him  timorously,  and  taking  up  his  hat  went 
slowly  out  of  the  house.  .  .  . 

In  the  middle  of  the  week  Mr.  Barker  received  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Masham  asking  him  to  come  and  see 
her  on  the  following  Saturday.  It  gave  him  no 
emotion  of  any  kind.  His  despondency  had  thrown 
a  kind  of  mechanical  film  over  all  his  actions  and 
thoughts.  He  did  not  even  answer  the  letter.  He 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  go. 

He  found  Mrs.  Masham  sitting  in  the  garden. 
She  received  him  with  a  smile. 

"  I  asked  you  to  come,  Mr.  Barker,"  she  began  in 
a  subdued  voice,  "  because  I  don't  wish  you  to  carry 
away  a  wrong  impression  of  me.  I  am  easily  upset 
nowadays.  I  have  been  through  a  great  deal." 
She  paused  a  moment  and  continued  in  a  more 
natural  tone,  "  And  then  we  never  did  discuss  busi- 
ness after  all,  did  we?  And  there's  one  more  thing 
—  what  about  yourself,  Mr.  Barker  ?  " 

"  About  myself  ?  "  echoed  the  clerk. 

"  Yes,  about  yourself.  I  have  been  thinking  of 
46 


The  Two  Dependants 


you.     You  don't  look  well.     And  have  you  got  any 
work  yet?  " 

Mr.  Barker  shook  his  head. 

"  Ah,  that's  what  I've  been  fearing,  that's  exactly 
what  I've  been  fearing,"  came  like  a  pistol-shot  from 
Mrs.  Masham. 

Mr.  Barker  shook  his  head. 

"  Why,  ma'am,  its  nothing,"  he  expostulated. 
"  Clerks  are  always  getting  out  of  work.  I've  often 
been  out  of  work  before.  You  don't  understand." 

Mrs.  Masham  leaned  confidentially  forward. 

"  Perhaps  I  understand  better  than  you  do  your- 
self," she  murmured.  "  You  are  too  humble  to 
realise  that  no  one  can  do  more  than  sacrifice  all 
they  have  for  another.  But  I  realise  it.  Don't  you 
remember  that  sentence  in  the  Bible,  '  Greater  love 
hath  no  man  than  that  he  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
friend  *?  It  was  written  for  the  humble,  Mr.  Barker. 
They  never  think  it  refers  to  them,  but  it  does.  I 
know  all  about  the  Bible.  I've  had  plenty  of  time 
for  reading.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  Christianity  is? 
—  it's  a  religion  for  the  humble.  That's  why  you 
can  appreciate  it  and  I  can't,  and  that's  why  you 
can  get  consolation  out  of  this  God  of  yours." 

"  My  God,  ma'am?  He  is  as  much  your  God  as 
my  God." 

"  No,  Mr.  Barker,  He  is  not  my  God.  I  don't 
want  a  God  like  that.  I  don't  believe  He  exists." 

47 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Mr.  Barker  was  silent. 

"  And  what  makes  you  believe  He  exists  ?  "  added 
Mrs.  Masham. 

"  Faith,"  muttered  the  clerk. 

"  Ah,  faith !  The  faith  which  makes  Hindus  be- 
lieve in  their  God,  and  Mohammedans  in  theirs,  and 
savages  in  idols  —  is  that  it,  Mr.  Barker?  Isn't 
their  belief  founded  on  faith?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,  on  superstition." 

"  Really  —  well,  you  ask  a  Mohammedan  what  he 
thinks  your  religion  is  founded  on." 

"  Mohammedans  are  no  better  than  infidels, 
ma'am,"  retored  Mr.  Barker  severely,  "  even  many 
so-called  Christians  — " 

He  stopped  in  embarrassment. 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Barker.  But  are  you 
quite  certain  that  you  are  not  also  an  idolater?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  ma'am,"  said  Mr. 
Barker  with  an  effort. 

"  Why,  just  what  I  say,  of  course.  But  tell  me 
this,  Mr.  Barker ;  even  if  it  is  all  true,  even  if  every- 
thing is  just  as  you  believe,  what  do  you  Christians 
really  know  about  the  Devil?  You,  yourself,  you're 
always  talking  about  him,  but  what  do  you  know? 
That's  what  I  should  like  to  find  out." 

"  We  know  this  about  him,  ma'am,  that  he  is  the 
author  of  evil." 

"Well,  but  is  he?  Suppose  you  have  all  been 
48 


The  Two  Dependants 


mistaken.  Suppose  it  is  actually  the  Devil  who  is 
good  and  God  who  is  wicked."  She  laughed  out- 
right at  his  air  of  shocked  bewilderment.  "  Perhaps 
you  think  I'm  just  saying  this  to  tease  you,  but 
indeed  I'm  not.  No,  Mr.  Barker.  But  answer  me 
this,  isn't  there  far  more  unhappiness  in  the  world 
than  happiness?  Of  course  there  is.  Every  one 
knows  that.  Now,  if  God  was  really  good  would  He 
have  allowed  such  a  thing?  It's  a  simple  question, 
so  please  don't  put  me  off  with  the  life  to  come. 
I'm  tired  of  the  very  name.  It's  utterly  uninterest- 
ing to  me.  It's  just  as  if  you  said,  '  Let  me  kill  you 
at  once  so  that  you  can  enjoy  all  the  longer  rest  in 
that  beautiful  oak  coffin  with  brass  handles  which 
I  saw  at  the  undertaker's.'  But  seriously,  Mr. 
Barker,  don't  you  think  it's  very  unfair  that  we  never 
hear  what  the  Devil  has  to  say  for  himself  ?  We  get 
nothing  but  the  other  side  of  the  case.  The  Devil 
simply  hasn't  a  look  in.  How  do  we  know  he's  as 
bad  as  he's  painted  ?  He  may  be  very  well  meaning, 
only  stupid  like  any  ordinary  bishop.  I'm  sorry  for 
the  Bible  Devil,  he's  such  an  awful  bungler.  He's 
everlastingly  making  a  fool  of  himself.  How  God 
must  laugh  at  him  —  just  think,  he's  probably 
laughing  at  him  now  like  anything.  As  for  being 
powerful,  that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  cleverness. 
It's  only  an  accident,  like  having  six  fingers  instead 
of  five.  Gods  don't  create  themselves,  you  know, 

49 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Mr.  Barker,  otherwise  they  can't  always  have  existed 
and  if  they  didn't  always  exist  then  what  was  there 
before?" 

The  perspiration  stood  on  Mr.  Barker's  forehead. 

"  I  cannot  argue  with  you,  ma'am,"  he  said 
harshly,  "  you  have  not  even  the  faith  of  a  grain  of 
mustard  seed." 

Mrs.  Marsham  laughed. 

"  What,  more  quotations,  Mr.  Barker?  " 

"  My  brain  is  bewildered,  ma'am,  I  can't  think 
properly,"  muttered  the  other. 

But  Mrs.  Masham,  rising  to  her  feet,  seemed  to 
throw  from  off  her  the  veil  of  mockery. 

"  I  accept  your  rebuke,"  she  said  quietly.  "  It's 
my  abominable  selfishness.  I'm  in  an  overstrung 
condition,  Mr.  Barker.  Forget  all  my  stupid  non- 
sense. And  now  let  us  talk  about  yourself." 

"  Why,  ma'am?     There  is  nothing  to  say." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Barker,  there  is  a  great  deal  to 
say.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  question  of  your 
getting  employment." 

Mr.  Barker  was  silent. 

"  Then  there  is  the  question  of  your  helping  me 
with  Mr.  Masham's  affairs.  I  have  a  proposal  to 
make  to  you,  Mr.  Barker.  You  admit  that  you  are 
out  of  work.  Then  will  you  let  me  be  your  employer 
for  a  few  weeks?  Will  you  let  me  put  aside  for  you 
a  room  where  you  can  work  every  day  ?  " 

50 


The  Two  Dependants 


"  Is  it  really  necessary,  ma'am?  "  responded  Mr. 
Barker  tonelessly. 

"  It  is  necessary.  It's  the  only  way  we  have  of 
helping  Mr.  Masham.  Remember  what  you  prom- 
ised us  both.  And,  once  more,  forgive  me  for  all 
my  foolish  words.  I  have  suffered  too  much.  I  am 
in  such  revolt  against  Providence.  All  my  heart  is 
torn." 

She  had  assumed  in  a  moment  a  tragic  and  care- 
worn appearance. 

"  All  right,  I  will  come,"  said  Mr.  Barker. 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  gratitude. 

"  I  was  sure  you  would.  And  now  we  had  better 
say  good-bye.  We  are  both  upset.  I  shall  expect 
you,  then,  on  Monday  at  ten  o'clock." 

Mr.  Barker  bowed  to  her,  turned,  and  walked 
with  long  strides  out  of  the  garden. 

"  He  flounders  easily,"  she  mused,  watching  him, 
while  all  through  her  body  there  passed  a  thrill  of 
pleasant  excitement.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Barker  did  not  sleep  well,  although  he  had 
gone  straight  up  to  his  room  when  he  reached  home. 
He  rose  early  and  after  he  had  made  himself  a  cup 
of  tea  he  took  his  Bible  and  went  out  into  the  back- 
garden.  It  had  been  his  custom  to  do  this  on  fine 
Sunday  mornings  for  many  years.  But  to-day  he 
did  not  attempt  to  open  the  Bible.  He  just  sat 
there  with  it  on  his  knees.  It  did  not  even  occur 

51 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


to  him  later  to  get  up  and  make  himself  ready  for 
Chapel.  In  the  drowsy,  warm  sunlight  his  head  sud- 
denly nodded  forward  upon  his  chest.  He  started, 
opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  and  then  let  them  slowly 
close.  At  the  same  instant  he  was  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  steps.  Turning, 
he  saw,  framed  in  the  doorway,  the  figure  of  Mr. 
Pascoe,  chief  Deacon  of  his  Balham  Chapel. 

"The  Service!"  thought  Mr.  Barker  in  a  flash. 
He  had  never  missed  it  before. 

Mr.  Pascoe  was  a  bearded,  venerable  man  of  about 
sixty-six,  dressed  all  in  black,  with  black  gloves,  a 
rusty  black  frock-coat,  and  shiny  trousers.  On  his 
head  he  wore  an  old  silk-hat  surrounded  by  a  mourn- 
ing band. 

"  You  were  not  with  us  this  morning,  Brother 
Barker,"  he  began  in  a  high,  quavering  voice.  "  Is 
there  illness  in  your  home?  The  Lord  be  with  you." 

"  There  is  no  illness,"  muttered  Mr.  Barker  sheep- 
ishly. 

Mr.  Pascoe  looked  mortified. 

"  Then  shall  we  see  you  to-night?  "  he  asked  in  an 
inquisitorial  voice. 

"  Probably  not,"  said  Mr.  Barker. 

Mr.  Pascoe  turned  up  his  eyes  as  though  calling 
upon  Heaven  to  witness  the  backsliding  of  one  of  the 
elect,  but  he  made  no  reply  beyond  a  sort  of  groan. 
He  sat  down  beside  Mr.  Barker  and  taking  out  his 

52 


The  Two  Dependants 


handkerchief  he  carefully  rubbed  the  inside  of  his 
hat. 

"You  have  been  in  sore  affliction,  my  brother?" 
he  ventured. 

"  Yes,  great  affliction." 

"  God's  will  be  done,"  said  Mr.  Pascoe  fervently. 
"  I  see  that  you  have  His  Book  in  your  hand.  Ah, 
what  a  Book  it  is !  In  my  grief,  also,  it  has 
proved  a  blessing.  Where  should  I  be  now  without 
it?  " 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  enquired  Mr.  Barker. 

His  aged  friend  looked  very  uncomfortable. 

"  The  matter?  —  oh,  Brother  Barker,  I  have  been 
through  the  most  terrible  trouble.  All  my  sav- 
ings — '* 

He  stopped  to  wipe  the  rheum  from  his  eyes. 

"  Everything  has  gone,"  he  declared  tearfully. 

Mr.  Barker  was  too  dumfounded  to  speak.  But 
after  a  minute's  silence  he  asked,  "  Do  you  find 
much  comfort  in  prayer,  Mr.  Pascoe?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  just  think  what  it  means,  brother. 
Every  penny  I  had  put  by  for  my  old  age,  every 
penny.  There's  nothing  left." 

"  But  does  not  prayer  help  you  to  bear  it  ?  "  in- 
sisted Mr.  Barker. 

Mr.  Pascoe  was  weakly  offended  at  this  remark. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  like  this  ?  "  he  said, 
trembling  all  over.  "  You  are  turning  into  a  godless 

53 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


man.  If  any  one  should  sympathise  with  me  it  is 
you,  you  Brother  Barker.  Isn't  it  to  you  I  owe  all 
my  misfortune?  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  should 
still  have  had  my  £200."  He  could  not  restrain  his 
tears.  "  You  are  to  blame,"  he  whimpered. 

"  I  am  to  blame !  "  articulated  the  astounded  Mr. 
Barker. 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  true.  Didn't  I  put  my  trust  in  you  ? 
How  was  I  to  know  your  Mr.  Masham  was  a  swin- 
dler? " 

Mr.  Barker  was  horrified. 

"  You  invested  your  money  with  Mr.  Masham  ?  " 
he  shouted  incredulously. 

"  All  I  had  —  my  £200.  Didn't  you  tell  me  once 
that  he  was  the  best  man  you  knew?  " 

"  He  both  was  and  is,"  said  Mr.  Barker  sternly. 
"  How  was  it  you  came  to  lose  your  money  ?  How 
was  it  I  knew  nothing  about  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Pascoe  clutched  his  arm. 

"  It  was  like  this.  I  was  going  to  put  my  £200 
into  an  annuity.  I'd  been  thinking  of  it  for  years, 
and  the  longer  you  wait  the  more  you  get.  Hadn't 
I  a  right  to  do  it?  Hadn't  I  made  it  all  myself? 
Oh,  my  brother,  it  was  the  very  sweat  of  my  brow! 
But  my  nephew  —  you  don't  know  him  —  he's  crafty. 
'And  where  should  I  be  then?'  he  thinks.  What 
wickedness  there  is  in  man !  He  keeps  saying  to  me, 
'  Look,  uncle,  look  at  this  prospectus.'  How  he 

54 


The  Two  Dependants 


hinted  and  hinted !  I  got  so  tired  with  his  talk  that 
I  took  it  from  him  at  last.  And  there,  at  the  very 
top,  was  the  name  of  that  Masham  of  yours,  that 
brand  fit  for  the  burning.  But  what  could  I  do? 
Hadn't  you  praised  him  to  me  as  a  very  saint? 
What  could  I  do,  I  say?  " 

He  relapsed  back  into  senile  tears,  which  Mr. 
Barker,  who  felt  physically  stunned,  made  no  effort 
to  assuage. 

"  And  now  you  speak  harshly  to  me,"  he  blub- 
bered. "  Where  is  your  religion  ?  Oh,  that  I  should 
have  lived  to  see  this  day !  " 

"  You  ought  to  have  consulted  me,"  muttered  Mr. 
Barker.  "  I  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  Did  you  do 
it  in  your  nephew's  name?  " 

"  Yes,  in  my  nephew's  name,"  whispered  Mr.  Pas- 
coe  eagerly,  as  though  in  this  question  he  perceived 
a  ray  of  hope,  "  altogether  in  his  name.  Brother 
Barker,  you  will  help  me,  won't  you?  " 

Mr.  Barker  looked  with  commiseration  at  the  old 
man,  in  whose  appearance  respectable  and  secret 
poverty  was  marked  only  too  clearly. 

"  If  I  can  do  anything  I  will,"  he  said  haltingly, 
without  encouragement. 

Frail  and  shaky,  Mr.  Pascoe  got  to  his  feet. 
"  God  will  reward  you,"  he  mumbled  in  his  beard. 

Mr.  Barker  did  not  reply.  He  had  no  hope  of 
divine  rewards.  He  accompanied  Mr.  Pascoe  to  the 

55 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


street  without  a  word.  But  when  he  returned  to  the 
garden  he  began  to  walk  to  and  fro  in  frantic  dis- 
tress. The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  falling  to  pieces 
in  a  cloud  of  evil.  The  godly  and  the  innocent  were 
victims  on  every  side.  Wherever  you  looked  wicked- 
ness and  misery  reigned  triumphant.  And  prayer 
was  useless  —  that  was  the  most  awful  thought  of 
all.  The  one  pathway  to  salvation  was  closed.  Or 
was  salvation  itself  a  dream,  a  delusion?  Disinte- 
grating echoes  of  Mrs.  Masham's  conversations 
seemed  to  creep  and  creep  through  his  brain.  He 
went  into  the  house,  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  of  food,  and 
started  out  to  walk  to  Hampstead. 

Mrs.  Masham  expressed  no  surprise  at  seeing  him. 
She  was  in  a  gentle  mood  and  he,  too,  remembering 
how  she  had  appealed  to  him  only  yesterday,  spoke 
gently  to  her,  stifling  the  agony  of  his  heart,  striv- 
ing to  soften  the  unconciliating  rectitude  of  his 
manner.  He  told  her  simply,  in  few  words,  the  story 
of  Mr.  Pascoe's  loss,  and  glancing  at  him  she  knew  at 
once  that  it  had  not,  by  so  much  as  a  hair's  breadth, 
changed  his  opinion  of  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Masham  appeared  to  ruminate.  "  Yes,  he  is 
dense,"  she  was  thinking.  After  a  decent  interval 
she  remarked,  "  It  is  very  sad,  Mr.  Barker.  What 
would  Mr.  Masham  say  if  he  knew?  How  he  loved 
the  poor  —  and  the  rich.  How  he  loved  everybody. 
Did  you  say  this  Mr.  Pascoe  had  lost  much?  " 

56 


The  Two  Dependants 


"  Two  hundred  pounds  —  the  savings  of  his  life- 
time." 

"  And  he  is  an  old  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  my  oldest  friend." 

"  All  right.     /  will  make  it  good  to  him." 

Mr.  Barker  jumped  up  with  a  cry,  to  meet  the 
brilliant,  shining  eyes  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Masham 
fixed  upon  him. 

"  Benefactress !  "  he  stammered  in  confusion. 

Never  before  had  he  experienced  such  a  hidden  and 
inconceivable  emotion  of  guilt. 

"  You  shall  have  it  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Ma- 
sham. 

He  tried  to  thank  her  suitably,  but  all  he  said 
sounded  unreal  and  stilted.  Presently  he  got  up  to 
go. 

"  You  remember  what  you  promised  me  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Masham,  rising  at  the  same  time. 

"  About  my  coming  to-morrow?  " 

Mrs.  Masham  smiled. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  that's  what  I  mean.  But  why 
are  you  trying  to  run  away  so  early?  You  have 
never  really  seen  my  garden  yet.  Will  you  walk 
round  it  with  me?  " 

Mr.  Barker  bowed.  He  could  not  have  expressed, 
even  to  himself,  the  bewildered  shame  of  his  heart. 
He  felt  that  he  must  talk  about  Mr.  Masham. 

"  When  you  write  to  your  husband,  ma'am,"  he 
57 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


muttered,  "  be  sure  to  tell  him  what  you  have  done. 
It  will  give  him  great  happiness." 

"Will  it?"  said  Mrs.  Masham;  then  added 
briskly,  "  Come,  Mr.  Barker,  you  are  not  looking  at 
my  garden." 

The  heat  radiated  from  the  high  red  walls.  They 
walked  along  the  paths  and,  going  through  a  door  in 
the  wall,  found  themselves  on  the  green  slopes  of  a 
lawn  overlooking  a  little  pond.  All  was  peaceful  as 
the  quiet  of  a  dell  in  the  midst  of  a  pine-wood. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Barker,"  said  his  companion 
all  at  once,  "  I  think  there  is  something  very  touch- 
ing about  your  faith  in  Mr.  Masham." 

"Why  so,  ma'am?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  I  just  think  there  is." 

Mr.  Barker  was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  notice 
grades  of  intonation,  but  he  suddenly  trembled. 

"  My  faith  in  Mr.  Masham  is  founded  on  facts," 
he  replied. 

"  Well,  it  is  very  touching,"  reiterated  Mrs. 
Masham. 

Every  minute  of  their  walk  had  seemed  more  un- 
bearable to  Mr.  Barker.  He  could  not  understand 
what  was  happening  within  him.  He  felt  as  if  some 
insufferable  guilt  were  penetrating  into  his  soul. 
He  would  have  seized  any  opportunity  for  de- 
parture. 

Perhaps  she  realised  this,  because  she  remarked  be- 
58 


The  Two  Dependants 


fore  long,  "  Well,  I  know  you  want  to  be  getting 
home  now,"  and  held  out  her  hand. 

He  took  it,  let  it  drop  as  if  he  had  been  stung,  and 
went  away  without  a  word. 

After  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Masham  settled  down  to 
one  of  her  long  evenings  of  rapturous  immobility. 
All  round  her  the  scent  of  the  garden,  rising  with  the 
dew,  seemed  like  an  intoxicating  rare  perfume  out  of 
the  East.  The  hours  passed.  The  stars,  coming 
out  in  the  sky,  began  to  shine  like  faint  harbour  lights 
across  the  sea.  She  was  completely  at  rest. 

"  Yes,"  she  thought  suddenly,  "  as  soon  as  his  be- 
lief goes,  then  everything  goes,"  and,  jumping  up, 
she  went  full  of  joy  and  gladness  into  the  dark  house. 

On  Monday  morning  at  ten  o'clock  Mr.  Barker  ar- 
rived for  his  new  duties.  He  was  conducted  to  Mr. 
Masham's  study  where,  with  a  pile  of  papers  before 
him,  he  continued  working  all  day.  At  five  o'clock 
Mrs.  Masham  made  her  appearance  and  urged  him 
to  go  home.  She  had  a  few  minutes'  conversation 
with  him  about  what  he  had  been  doing  and  just  as 
he  was  leaving  handed  him  a  bulky  envelope.  She 
did  it  quite  simply. 

"  It  contains  the  money,"  was  all  she  said,  adding 
immediately,  "  I  shall  expect  you  again  to-morrow." 

"  Yes  —  very  good  —  ten  o'clock,"  mumbled  Mr. 
Barker,  too  overcome  to  know  how  to  answer. 

He  did  not  wait  to  go  home,  but  hurried  straight 
59 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


to  Mr.  Pascoe.  The  old  man  lived  in  two  meagre 
rooms  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  dark  stone  stairs  and 
he  could  always  be  found  there  of  an  evening  por- 
ing over  sermons  from  the  Free  Library  or  knitting 
comforters  on  a  wooden  frame  of  his  own  invention. 
They  were  his  only  relaxations.  He  was  reading 
when  Mr.  Barker  knocked,  trying  painfully  with  the 
aid  of  horn  spectacles  to  spell  out  comfort  for  his 
ancient  and  stricken  heart.  Mr.  Barker  explained 
what  had  happened  and  produced  the  envelope  and 
gave  it  over.  But  the  old  man  seemed  unable  to  com- 
prehend. He  had  no  sooner  torn  it  open  than  he  was 
overwhelmed  by  the  most  violent  trembling  and  great 
tears  began  to  roll  down  his  face.  He  crushed  the 
notes  in  his  hand  and  suddenly  opening  it  he  stared 
at  them  with  amazement  and  ecstasy. 

"  But  here  they  are!  Where  did  you  get  them?  " 
he  stammered. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  got  them  from  Mrs.  Masham.  They 
belong  to  you  now." 

Mr.  Pascoe  shut  his  eyes. 

"  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd ;  I  shall  not  want,"  he 
quavered.  Then,  "  Where  does  this  woman  abide, 
Brother  Barker?  " 

Mr.  Barker  gave  him  the  address. 

The  old  man  was  getting  more  excited  every  mo- 
ment. "  You  mean  to  say  you  just  went  and  told 
her  everything  and  she  gave  you  the  money?  O 

60 


Lord,  my  God,  Thou  art  my  Saviour !  Ah,  well,  she 
knows  it  was  my  money.  A  poor  wretch  like  me,  too. 
Listen,  Brother  Barker,  I  shall  put  it  in  the  Savings 
Bank.  O  Lord,  Thou  art  indeed  a  help  in  time  of 
trouble!  Brother  Barker,  shall  we  pray?  No,  I 
must  pray  alone.  My  head  seems  to  be  going  round. 
I  was  sitting  here  and  then,  before  I  know  where  I  am, 
there's  my  £200  on  the  table.  Brother  Barker,  you 
are  absolved  from  a  great  sin.  God  will  judge  us 
all  and  me,  too,  and  everybody.  I  was  thinking, 
*  There's  nothing  but  the  workhouse  now  '-  —  and,  be- 
hold, you  were  already  knocking  at  the  door.  How 
my  heart  beats !  God  will  reward  you." 

He  got  up,  shivering  like  a  little  child  after  a 
fright. 

"  Yes,  God  knows  all  our  secrets,"  he  whispered 
vaguely. 

Mr.  Barker  hastened  to  bid  him  good-bye. 

"  Shall  I  take  a  message  from  you  to  Mrs.  Ma- 
sham?"  he  asked,  as  he  was  going  out. 

Mr.  Pascoe  looked  at  him. 

"  No,  I  will  manage  that,"  he  answered  slowly. 

Mr.  Barker  did  not  see  him  again  to  speak  to  for 
some  time.  For  now  began  for  him  several  weeks  of 
hard  work.  Alone  in  Mr.  Masham's  study  he  toiled 
ceaselessly  from  morning  till  night  to  bring  order 
out  of  chaos  in  all  that  remained  of  his  former  mas- 
ter's papers  and  affairs.  He  had  little  enough  to  go 

61 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


upon.  Everything  in  the  slightest  degree  incrim- 
inating had  been  impounded  long  since.  Still  his 
perseverance  had  some  slight  measure  of  success. 
Moreover,  he  continued  to  draw  up  the  first  report 
ordered  of  him  by  Mr.  Masham.  During  all  this 
period  he  saw  but  little  of  the  financier's  wife.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  avoided  her.  And  she,  on  her  side, 
was  discretion  itself.  If  she  came  into  the  study  it 
was  only  to  speak  formally  to  him  on  business.  She 
asked  intelligent  questions ;  she  even  initiated  lines  of 
research.  And  yet  he  knew  that  in  their  relationship 
there  was  something  that  had  not  been  there  before, 
something  which  her  very  reticence  made  all  the  more 
significant,  something  born,  as  it  were,  on  that  after- 
noon he  had  told  her  of  Mr.  Pascoe's  ruin.  How  it 
haunted  him,  this  horrible,  this  hidden  understand- 
ing! He  did  not  even  know  properly  what  it  was. 
But  suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  the  most  impersonal 
conversation,  their  eyes  would  meet  as  though  words 
were  just  going  to  be  said  that  could  never  be  unsaid 
again.  Mrs.  Masham  would  laugh  and  turn  away, 
while  Mr.  Barker,  biting  his  lips  very  hard,  would  be- 
gin striding  up  and  down  the  room.  She  would  be 
gone  so  softly  that  when  he  looked  up  he  was  alone. 
Mr.  Barker  would  pass  his  hand  over  his  face  as 
though  he  had  been  dreaming.  "  I  must  do  some 
work,"  he  would  mutter,  "  some  more  work,"  and  he 
would  sit  down  resolutely  at  the  table.  But  some- 

62 


times  after  such  a  scene  he  could  not  work.  He  could 
only  stare  at  the  door  like  a  man  bewitched.  He  had 
to  pull  himself  together  with  a  jerk.  Now  and  al- 
ways he  was  assailed  by  the  most  awful  of  doubts,  by 
the  most  terrible  suggestions  of  evil.  He  could  ex- 
plain everything  by  phrases  but  he  could  not  still  his 
questioning  heart.  An  argument  went  on  within  per- 
petually, an  argument  aching  like  the  stab  of  con- 
science, forever  traversing  the  same  ground,  forever 
confronted  by  the  figure  of  the  innocent  Mr.  Ma- 
sham.  It  was  a  dual  argument,  in  which  a  strange, 
forbidden  horizon  appeared  to  be  emerging  from 
above  the  withered  shadow  of  belief.  Mr.  Barker 
dreaded  human  society.  He  seemed  to  live  in  a  world 
of  phantoms.  Truly  he  was  deafened  by  the  eternal 
conflict  of  his  doubts. 

And  Mrs.  Masham,  observing  him  from  day  to  day, 
knew  every  step  of  the  journey.  She  knew  that  to 
him  she  was  no  longer  a  mere  factor  in  the  problem 
of  Mr.  Masham.  It  made  her  glow  all  over  as  she 
sat  amidst  her  darkening  rose-bushes.  More  and 
more  she  felt  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Since  the 
debacle  no  one  had  visited  her,  and  she  was  glad  of 
it.  She  had  never  been  so  happy  before.  The  hum 
of  the  advancing  summer  used  to  wake  her  every 
morning,  and,  lying  with  her  eyes  closed,  she  would 
let  the  very  essence  of  it  sink  into  her  body,  pulsat- 
ing as  with  new  life.  She  thought  of  Mr.  Barker,  as 

63 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


a  painter  thinks  of  the  completed  picture  with  the 
first  dab  upon  the  canvas.  She  had  almost  forgotten 
her  husband.  She  felt  no  animosity  towards  him,  no 
malice  at  all,  but  for  a  long  time  he  had  been  fading 
out  of  her  life  and  now  his  actual  absence  had  com- 
pleted the  illusion.  She  was  one  of  those  women 
whose  past  has  no  hold  on  them.  Her  reveries  were 
concerned  with  another  kind  of  existence  altogether, 
with  half-material  glimpses  of  sun-lit  isles,  with  emo- 
tions of  delight,  with  dreams  of  conquest,  passion, 
and  surrender.  She  could  not  have  explained  why 
it  was  that  the  incongruous  Mr.  Barker  had  become 
the  pivot  of  her  desires.  She  was  not  interested  in 
explanations.  They  bored  her.  She  took  things  as 
they  happened.  If  they  were  good  she  accepted 
them;  if  they  were  bad  she  retired  within  herself, 
listening,  as  in  a  trance,  for  the  footfall  of  the  hours 
to  come.  Intrigue,  alone,  did  not  amuse  her.  She 
was  too  imaginative.  Her  sensuous  nature  was 
moored  to  the  unsatisfied  yearnings  of  romance.  .  .  . 

When,  on  the  second  Saturday  after  his  instal- 
ment, Mrs.  Masham  entered  the  study  to  pay  him  his 
salary  (she  did  this  with  great  tact,  leaving  the 
money  in  an  envelope  as  though  she  had  dropped  it 
on  the  desk  by  mistake),  she  found  Mr.  Barker  star- 
ing out  of  the  window  with  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"  I  have  finished  my  work  here,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
answering  her  look  of  enquiry. 

64, 


The  Two  Dependants 


"  Then  you  are  not  coming  again  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am ;  everything  is  now  in  order ;  that's  to 
say  as  far  as  it's  possible  for  me  to  put  it  in  order." 

"I  thank  you  from  my  heart,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Masham.  "  But  remember,  Mr.  Barker,  it  is  only  as 
an  employer  I  am  losing  you.  As  a  friend  you  are 
necessary  to  me." 

"  Of  course  —  at  your  service,"  blurted  Mr.  Bar- 
ker indistinctly. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  so  indeed !  What  a  strange 
man  you  are,  Mr.  Barker !  " 

"  No,  I  am  a  very  ordinary  man,"  said  Mr.  Bar- 
ker, not  smiling  in  the  least. 

Mrs.  Masham  laughed  more  merrily  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  a  strange  man ;  you  remind  me 
of  —  what  shall  I  call  it?  —  a  conspirator." 

But  Mr.  Barker  was  not  heeding. 

"  How  often  has  Mr.  Pascoe  been  here  ?  "  he  asked 
suddenly. 

She  affected  surprise. 

"  Mr.  Pascoe  ?  How  did  you  know  he  had  been 
here  at  all?  I  can't  say  how  often  —  several  times. 
He  came  to  thank  me  and  —  well,  he  keeps  on  com- 
ing. We  agree  famously.  I  believe  he's  waiting  to 
see  me  at  the  present  moment." 

"  He  is,"  said  the  direct  Mr.  Barker.  "  I  saw  him 
through  the  window  five  minutes  ago.  I'm  always 
seeing  him.  I  think  he  tries  to  avoid  me." 

65 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Mrs.  Masham  glanced  at  him. 

"  There  may  be  a  reason,"  she  replied  in  a  lower 
key. 

But  Mr.  Barker  did  not  like  the  conversation.  He 
hated  all  this  air  of  mystery  and,  most  of  all,  he 
hated  himself.  He  wished  he  had  never  mentioned 
the  subject. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  retorted ;  "  per- 
haps he  still  fancies  he  has  a  grievance  against  me. 
If  that's  so  — "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Mrs.  Masham  smiled  but  she  did  not  enlighten  him 
any  further. 

"  Come  and  see  me  again  soon,"  she  remarked  as 
he  was  leaving. 

Mr.  Barker  went  home  in  a  curious  frame  of  mind. 
He  was  abased  to  the  very  ground.  He  did  not 
know  where  to  turn.  He  felt  that  things  needed 
straightening  out  and  he  did  not  dare  to  ask  himself 
why.  He  was  horribly  anxious  to  see  Mr.  Pascoe. 
He  resisted  the  desire  for  several  days  (during  which 
he  did  positively  nothing  but  walk  up  and  down  his 
garden),  but  one  evening  he  suddenly  took  up  his  hat 
and  went  round  to  the  old  man's  lodgings.  He  found 
him  just  finishing  his  supper,  but,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Mr.  Pascoe  showed  no  pleasure  at  his  visit. 

"  You  are  never  at  Chapel  now,  Brother  Barker," 
he  piped  shrilly  in  answer  to  the  other's  greeting. 

He  did  not  wait  for  Mr.  Barker  to  make  any  re- 
66 


The  Two  Dependants 


sponse  (what  response  was  there?),  but,  jumping  up, 
he  began  to  clear  the  table  with  quite  unnecessary 
noise. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you,"  said  Mr.  Barker,  "  how 
it  is — "  ("No,  what  am  I  saying?"  he  thought 
bitterly.)  "You  are  very  friendly  with  Mrs.  Ma- 
sham  now,  aren't  you?  "  he  added  in  a  steady  voice. 

Mr.  Pascoe  looked  slyly  at  him,  but  all  at  once 
redoubled  his  energy. 

'*  What  is  it  you're  saying,  Brother  Barker  ?  Oh, 
these  plates,  how  they  clatter  and  clatter !  I  wish  I 
had  never  bought  tin  plates." 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  often  see  Mrs.  Masham?  "  in- 
sisted Mr.  Barker. 

"  Well,  I  went  to  thank  her.  There,  I've  dropped 
it  now!  What  were  you  asking?  Do  I  see  her 
often?  I  see  her  sometimes,  of  course.  Oh,  Brother 
Barker,  what  a  godly,  upright  woman !  Look  how 
I've  dented  it!  That's  the  way  these  tin  plates  al- 
ways go.  Lord,  help  me  in  my  small  trials !  " 

He  stared  ruefully  at  his  friend. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you?  "  muttered  Mr.  Bar- 
ker, more  to  himself  than  aloud. 

But  Mr.  Pascoe,  whose  hearing  seemed  to  have 
grown  abnormally  acute,  took  him  up  at  once. 

"What  has  happened  to  me?  Glad  tidings, 
Brother  Barker,  glad  tidings.  I  have  traversed 
verily  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  But  God,  in  His 

67 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


mercy  has  remembered  me.  My  heart  is  lifted 
up." 

Mr.  Barker  frowned.  Mr.  Pascoe's  piety  ap- 
peared out  of  tune.  Moreover,  he  felt  quite  sure 
that  there  was  something  else. 

"  You  have  altered  a  great  deal,"  he  remarked 
drily. 

Mr.  Pascoe  went  on  buzzing  about  the  room  like  a 
fly.  But  he  heard  everything. 

"  Altered,  you  say?  No,  no,  it  is  not  I  who  have 
altered,  brother.  You  have  altered.  Oh,  these  cups ! 
Yes,  it  is  you  who  are  different.  You  have  become 
very  godless.  How  the  dust  gets  everywhere!  I 
know  I  brushed  this  shelf  only  yesterday.  Do  you 
hear?  —  only  yesterday  I  brushed  every  inch  of  it. 
You  talk  about  change,  Brother  Barker.  May  God 
soften  your  heart." 

Mr.  Barker  had  had  enough  of  it.     He  got  up. 

Mr.  Pascoe  was  still  running  from  corner  to  corner 
with  his  duster.  It  was  quite  evident  that  he  had 
resolved  not  to  hold  any  real  conversation  with  the 
clerk.  The  whole  thing  was  a  mystery  to  Mr.  Barker 
and  nothing  in  it  was  more  mysterious  to  him  than 
the  fact  that  it  should  appear  so  momentous.  An 
old  man  in  his  dotage  carried  away  by  flattery  and 
good  fortune !  Bah,  it  was  absurd !  But  he  did  not 
cease  thinking  about  it  all  night.  His  thoughts  were 
confused.  Only  one  thing  he  saw  clearly  and  that 

68 


The  Two  Dependants 


was  that  this  state  of  affairs  could  not  go  on.  There 
must  be  an  end  to  it.  Pacing  in  his  garden  in  the 
morning  twilight  he  made  his  resolution.  As  soon  as 
the  paper  arrived  he  began  eagerly  to  scan  the 
vacant-situation  pages.  Having  marked  suitable 
ones  with  a  blue  pencil,  he  folded  the  sheet  and  went 
forth  to  try  his  luck.  The  final  result  of  it  was 
(and  it  took  more  than  a  week  of  trudging  and  re- 
buffs) that  he  got  the  offer  of  a  post  as  book-keeper 
in  some  stores  at  a  salary  of  £2.10.  It  was  not  bril- 
liant but  he  accepted  it  at  once.  The  very  difference 
from  his  past  employment  would  close  the  old  chapter 
as  nothing  else  could.  And  it  needed  closing  tight, 
tight,  so  that  no  whisper  of  the  other  world  could  ever 
penetrate  again. 

Entering  his  little  hall,  on  his  return  home  from 
this  successful  expedition,  the  first  thing  he  saw  was 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Masham.  It  was  lying  on  the 
mat,  just  where  the  postman  had  shoved  it  through 
the  door.  The  mere  sight  of  it  caused  the  blood  to 
rush  into  Mr.  Barker's  face.  He  picked  it  up, 
opened  it,  and  read  that  he  was  to  call  upon  Mrs. 
Masham  at  once.  "  Now  —  this  afternoon  ?  "  he 
thought  breathlessly.  He  felt  painfully  excited,  so 
excited  indeed  that  he  was  almost  light-headed.  At 
the  same  time  a  formidable  weight  pressed  upon 
his  heart.  He  found  himself  running  to  the  sta- 
tion. .  .  . 

69 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


The  meeting  was  a  singular  one.  Mrs.  Masham 
opened  the  door  to  him  herself  as  if  she  had  been 
awaiting  his  arrival.  She  did  not  speak,  but  immedi- 
ately stepped  past  him  out  of  the  house  and  beckoned 
him  to  follow  her  into  the  garden. 

"  You  have  been  a  long  time  coming  to  see  me,"  she 
said  at  last,  and  her  voice,  low  in  the  still  afternoon, 
sounded  very  thrilling  in  Mr.  Barker's  ears. 

"  Yes,  a  long  time.  I  have  been  trying  to  get 
work." 

"  And  you  have  succeeded?  " 

Mr.  Barker  nodded.  He  could  only  articulate 
with  difficulty  and  he  noticed  with  terror  that  Mrs. 
Masham  was  trembling. 

"  Does  that  mean  I  shan't  see  you  any  more,  Mr. 
Barker?" 

Mr.  Barker  was  silent.  In  spite  of  all  his  promises 
to  Mrs.  Masham  that  was  exactly  what  it  had  meant. 
Their  eyes  suddenly  met. 

"  I  think  it  does,  ma'am,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 

Mrs.  Masham  walked  on  a  little  way  and  stopped. 

*'  It's  intolerably  hot  here,"  she  murmured.  "  Let 
us  go  down  to  the  pond." 

The  heat  was,  indeed,  terrific.  In  the  last  half 
hour  a  singular  change  had  taken  place.  The  sky 
had  grown  all  leaden  and  was  rapidly  darkening 
towards  the  East.  Stagnant  air  drooped  upon  the 
earth  and  quivered,  parched  and  lifeless,  over  every 

70 


The  Two  Dependants 


motionless  twig  and  blade  of  grass.  An  unnatural 
hush  lay  heavily  upon  the  garden.  Everything 
seemed  to  portend  a  storm. 

"  Follow  me,"  said  Mrs.  Masham. 

Mr.  Barker  followed  her.  They  went  through  the 
further  gate  leading  onto  the  lawn.  Neither  of  them 
spoke,  hushed,  perhaps,  by  the  great  warning  hush 
of  nature  herself.  In  passing  down  the  slope  Mr. 
Barker  happened  to  look  at  the  house,  only  to  catch 
a  distinct  and  fleeting  vision  of  Mr.  Pascoe's  aged  face 
in  an  upper  window.  For  some  reason  or  other  the 
sight  irritated  him  intensely. 

"  I  see  that  you  still  have  that  old  man  visiting 
you,"  he  remarked. 

"  Yes,  he  comes  nearly  every  day.  He's  here  now. 
I  —  I  didn't  expect  you  so  early." 

Mr.  Barker  laughed,  but  it  was  not  a  very  agree- 
able laugh. 

"  Really,  ma'am,  I  see  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't 
meet.  There's  no  mystery,  is  there?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  Only  he  seems  frightened  of  you. 
And,  who  knows,  you  mightn't  like  to  hear  the  truth 
about  his  visits." 

"  Not  like  to  hear  the  truth  \  On  the  contrary, 
that's  precisely  what  I  should  like  to  hear.  Tell  me 
the  truth,  ma'am." 

He  spoke  bitterly. 

"  All  right.  Only  don't  be  angry.  The  explana- 
71 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


tion  may  strike  you  as  rather  sordid.  He  comes  here 
to  —  to  get  more  money.  He's  very  persistent. 
He's  always  at  it.  I  suppose  he  thinks  I'm  a  fool. 
In  a  word,  he's  trying  to  sponge  on  me." 

Mr.  Barker  gazed  at  her  with  open-mouthed  dis- 
may. 

"  What,  you  gave  him  all  that  money  and  that's 
his  answer!  Mr.  Pascoe  sponging  and  begging! 
How  detestable !  Mr.  Pascoe  of  all  men !  " 

Mrs.  Masham  pouted. 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.  You  know,  I  never  did  be- 
lieve in  these  religious  old  men.  I  don't  give  it  a 
second  thought." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?  "  demanded  Mr. 
Barker. 

"  Because  —  well,  can't  you  guess  why  ?  "  and  she 
threw  on  him  a  glance  so  shy  and  burning  that  he 
shuddered.  "  I  wanted  you  to  be  jealous,  if  only  of 
an  old  man,"  she  breathed. 

Mr.  Barker  did  not  move  or  speak.  Something 
like  blissful  and  poisonous  honey  seemed  to  seethe  in 
his  blood. 

"  I  am  not  acting  now,"  she  whispered  softly  and 
timidly. 

It  was  quite  true.  She  was  not  acting.  She  had 
never  felt  like  this  before  in  all  her  life.  She  did  not 
know  what  had  happened  to  her.  She  would  have 
given  all  she  possessed  to  hear  that  he  loved  her.  She 

72 


The  Two  Dependants 


had  waited  years  for  this  moment  and  now,  at  last, 
it  was  as  if  she  could  wait  no  longer. 

Thus  does  woman's  hatred  of  the  abstract  make 
of  romance  itself  only  a  form  of  patient  discontent 
until  some  Mr.  Barker,  at  first  merely  exciting  as  a 
contrast,  shall  have  swept  her  past  her  conscious  goal 
in  the  sudden  flood  wrecking  all  the  former  bound- 
aries of  her  desire. 

"  Oh,  speak  to  me !  "  she  murmured. 

But  Mr.  Barker  did  not  speak.  His  thoughts 
roared  at  him  much  too  loudly.  If  there  was  no  God, 
no  hereafter,  no  righteousness  in  the  world  then  why 
shouldn't  he  take  her?  If  there  was  no  good  there 
could  be  no  evil  and  every  one  must  think  only  of 
themselves.  Yes,  why  shouldn't  he  take  her?  She 
would  be  his,  and  all  would  be  forgotten,  and  he 
would  know  that  he  had  not  lived  in  vain.  All,  all 
would  be  forgotten.  One  word  only  and  then  —  for- 
getfulness ! 

Mrs.  Masham,  intent  upon  the  moment,  did  not 
understand.  She  had  lost  suddenly  all  her  knowledge 
of  men.  She  only  wanted  to  feel  his  arms  round  her. 
The  blushes  came  and  went  on  her  face  as  on  that  of 
a  young  girl. 

"  Speak  to  me ! "  she  murmured  again. 

Her  words  stilled  the  tumult  in  Mr.  Barker's 
brain.  What  was  the  good  of  resisting !  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak  and  at  the  same  instant  he  remem- 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


bered  Mr.  Masham.  Yes,  strange  as  it  may  appear, 
he  had  not  thought  of  him  before.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  he  had  long  realised  (without  admitting  it  to 
himself)  that  her  husband  was  nothing  to  Mrs.  Ma- 
sham.  Well,  and  suppose  that  was  the  reason ! 
Pretty  reason,  indeed !  Vile  reason !  For  in  all  the 
welter  of  his  thoughts  Mr.  Masham  alone  stood  firm 
upon  the  ground,  a  good  man,  just,  innocent,  his 
benefactor. 

"Your  —  your  husband?"  muttered  Mr.  Barker 
desperately. 

And  as  he  spoke  it  seemed  to  him,  wrought  up  as 
he  was,  that  the  spirit  of  the  exuberant  and  burly 
Mr.  Masham  was  filling  the  garden.  Here  he  had 
walked  on  countless  evenings,  here  his  jovial  shout 
had  sounded  in  the  dusk  calling  upon  his  wife  to  join 
him  in  his  stroll.  What  memories!  Nothing  must 
be  undone! 

"  Mrs.  Masham,  what  is  to  happen  to  him?  " 

She  made  a  gesture  of  weariness. 

"  Never  mind  him  —  it's  you,  you !  " 

He  heard  her,  and  at  her  words  the  ghost  of  Mr. 
Masham's  presence  vanished  from  the  garden  as 
though  his  corporeal  master  had,  in  very  truth,  never 
existed.  Quick  boiled  once  more  the  sweet  poison  in 
Mr.  Barker's  veins.  Again  the  shouts  in  his  head, 
but  shouts  of  triumph,  of  certitude,  and  of  accom- 
plished victory.  In  the  anarchy  of  a  world  without 

74 


The  Two  Dependants 


purpose  there  could  only  be  yourself  to  think  of, 
only  your  own  happiness  and  delight !  Look  to  your- 
self, Mr.  Masham! 

She  was  so  blind  as  not  to  read  him  even  then. 
She  thought  that,  after  all,  he  might  yet  slip  from 
her. 

"What  has  my  husband  got  to  do  with  it?  "  she 
asked  him  passionately.  "  Don't  you  know  that  I 
hate  him  —  that  I  have  always  hated  him?  You 
drive  me  mad  with  your  chatter  about  his  innocence. 
Simpleton !  He's  guilty,  guilty  —  do  you  hear  ?  — 
guilty  as  he  can  be !  He's  a  common  swindler !  He's 
been  swindling  for  years.  He's  a  scoundrel,  a  de- 
frauder  of  widows,  a  man  who  would  do  anything  for 
money !  " 

Above  their  heads  the  first  clap  of  the  thunder- 
storm broke  with  a  loud  report  and  a  few  drops  of 
rain,  large  and  viscid,  fell  and  spattered  over  the 
pond  like  grease. 

Mr.  Barker  noticed  nothing.  He  was  staring  at 
Mrs.  Masham.  He  never  doubted  her  words  for  a 
moment. 

"  Then,  O  God,  Thou  dost  truly  exist,"  he  cried 
all  at  once;  "  Thou  art  just  and  righteous  and  Thy 
vengeance  is  upon  the  oppressor ! " 

Mrs.  Masham  looked  at  him  with  eager,  unseeing 
eyes. 

"  I  tell  you  he's  guilty ;  my  husband,  Masham,  is 
75 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


guilty.  Oh,  my  beloved,  forget  him  and  come  to 
me!" 

She  tried  to  hold  his  arm  but  he  shook  her  off  with 
horror. 

"  Begone,  woman  of  Belial ! "  he  shouted  with 
frenzy.  "  God  exists  —  repent  while  there  is  yet 
time !  I,  too,  will  repent  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  !  O 
God,  here  on  this  spot  I  confess  my  mortal  sin!  I 
implore  thy  pardon,  and  for  him  too,  and  for  this 
woman." 

He  turned  and  rushed  from  her,  and  the  second 
clap  of  thunder,  breaking  with  a  still  louder  ex- 
plosion, drowned  the  cry  of  the  woman  he  had  left. 
The  rain  swept  down  in  torrents  but  he  did  not  feel 
it.  God  existed!  So  wildly  did  he  run  that  he 
nearly  collided  with  a  boy  on  a  red  bicycle  who  was 
bringing  a  telegram  to  Mrs.  Masham  from  the 
governor  of  the  jail  informing  her  that  her  husband 
had  died  that  very  morning  from  an  attack  of  heart- 
failure. 


MIDNIGHT 


MIDNIGHT 

THE  last  strokes  of  midnight  had  hardly 
ceased  striking,  loud  or  faint,  from  the  City 
Churches  like  echo  upon  echo  of  one  enor- 
mous chime,  when  Hazell,  who  had  been  writing  stead- 
ily at  his  desk,  suddenly  heard  a  knocking  upon  his 
outer  door.  In  the  deep  stillness  succeeding  the 
momentary  clamour,  the  little  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece, as  though  caught  in  an  act  of  unpardonable 
sloth,  began  to  count  twelve  with  guilty  and  feverish 
haste. 

"  Midnight ! "  said  Hazell  to  himself  in  astonish- 
ment. 

Whoever  it  was  who  had  knocked  must  have  come 
upstairs  as  quietly  as  a  mouse  and  be  waiting  out 
there  now  ready  to  knock  again. 

"  Who  can  it  it  be?  "  muttered  Hazell,  rising  from 
his  chair. 

At  that  instant  it  sounded  again,  the  knocking, 
more  insistent  and  prolonged  than  before. 

"  Damnation ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  without  more 
ado  he  walked  quickly  into  the  passage  and  flung 
open  the  door. 

A  man  whom  he  had  never  seen  before,  a  very  polite 
79 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


looking  man  of  about  twenty-eight,  with  a  small 
moustache  and  dark  hair,  was  standing  on  the  mat. 
Hazell  held  the  door  open,  pausing  for  him  to  say 
something  or  other.  It  suddenly  struck  him  that 
his  visitor  was  exactly  like  a  clerk  who  has  called 
by  appointment  to  discuss  some  business  or  other, 
and  he  half  expected  him  to  introduce  himself  as  such 
( "  that  little  affair  of  the  codicil,  you  remember,"  or 
so  forth),  and  instinctively  he  glanced  down  to  see  if 
he  were  carrying  the  sort  of  seedy  leather  bag  that 
lawyers'  clerks  always  seem  to  carry  —  he  was. 
There  was  something  quite  absurd  in  the  incongruity 
of  that  bag.  Hazell  had  actually  an  inclination  to 
laugh,  but  it  was  checked  by  the  dignified  expression 
on  the  stranger's  face.  He  stood  before  him  with  the 
collected  air  of  a  person  deep  in  thought.  Suddenly, 
without  saying  a  word,  he  brushed  past  Hazell  and 
entered  the  room.  "  What  the  Devil  is  this  fellow 
up  to  ?  "  thought  Hazell,  following  him  angrily.  The 
man  had  gone  over  to  the  fire  and  was  warming  his 
hands  with  his  back  to  him.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  some  one  or  other  with  whom 
he  had  business  to  transact.  It  was  most  insulting. 

"  Excuse  me,  what  is  it  you  want?  "  asked  Hazell, 
leaning  across  the  table. 

The  other  turned  and  stared  at  him. 

"  What  is  it  I  want  ?  —  I  want  to  know  whether 
you  recognise  me?  " 

80 


Midnight 

"  Certainly  not.  I've  never  set  eyes  on  you  be- 
fore," snapped  Hazell.  He  was  thinking  to  himself, 
"  Pooh,  this  is  a  very  old  game  to  play !  " 

"  No,  not  set  eyes  on  me,"  echoed  the  stranger  dis- 
tinct, weighing  his  words,  "  perhaps  not  that." 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  explain  yourself ! "  broke 
from  Hazell,  who  was  really  losing  his  temper. 

But  the  stranger  only  replied,  in  his  even,  dispas- 
sionate voice,  "  Look  at  me  more  carefully." 

Hazell  regarded  his  curiously.  No,  the  man  was 
a  complete  stranger  to  him.  "  Complete,"  he  mur- 
mured with  conviction.  He  gazed  at  him,  standing 
so  unexpectedly  in  the  very  room  where  all  his 
creations  had  risen  silently  into  life.  He  felt 
that  he  must  fight  against  a  sense  of  unreality 
that  was  beginning  to  creep  over  him.  Who  was 
this  man  watching  him  with  such  mysterious  insist- 
ence? 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said  at  length. 

The  stranger  sat  down  but  he  continued  to  look  at 
Hazell  in  a  very  odd  way  —  just  as  though  they  had 
some  secret  in  common. 

"  I  have  been  wanting  to  see  you  for  a  long  time," 
he  muttered. 

He  stopped,  as  if  in  confusion. 

"  I  say,  don't  you  recognise  me?  "  he  stammered  all 
at  once. 

"  No,  I  tell  you  I  don't,  if  that's  what  you  mean 
81 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


—  but  why  are  you  shaking?  What  is  it  you 
want?" 

Hazell  said  afterwards  that  he  had  begun  to  feel 
very  excited.  He  saw  that  there  was  something 
wrong  somewhere. 

"  Eh,  what  is  it?  "  he  repeated  in  a  loud  voice, 
thumping  the  table.  "  You  don't  expect  me  to  an- 
swer riddles,  do  you?  Whoever  heard  of  anything 
so  ridiculous!  Do  you  know  what  the  time  is? 
Twelve  o'clock.  Time  I  was  in  bed.  Why  do  you 
call  at  such  an  hour,  and  who  are  you  ?  " 

The  visitor  placed  his  little  bag  upon  the  table. 

"  I've  thought  of  coming  to  see  you  every  day  for 
five  months,"  he  said,  ignoring  the  question. 

Hazell  answered  nothing  at  all,  a  faint  and  mali- 
cious smile  suddenly  passed  over  his  face.  He  must 
have  guessed  how  the  other  was  going  to  begin. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  about  a  year  ago  you 
published  a  book?  " 

"  Oh,  perfectly,  thanks,"  observed  the  novelist  in 
a  dry  tone. 

He  felt  quite  in  his  element.  ("Rubbing  my 
hands  internally,"  as  he  called  it. )  "  This  chap  has 
something  on  his  mind,"  he  thought.  "  Well,  I  pub- 
lished a  book,"  he  added  aloud  in  a  mocking  voice. 

The  stranger  returned  his  glance  without  smiling. 
He  seemed  to  waive  aside  Hazell's  irony. 

"  Listen,"  he  began  severely.  "  In  dreams  one 
82 


Midnight 

often  has  an  eerie  sensation  of  having  experienced  it 
all  before.  Just  as  certain  faces,  perhaps  the  faces 
of  strangers,  recall  something  familiar  and  yet  elu- 
sive. And  you  know,  too,  what  it  is  to  be  on  the 
very  point  of  falling  asleep  and  to  spring  up  Avith  a 
wonderful  light  bursting  in  on  you  —  a  light  flaring 
and  going  out  at  the  same  instant?  Have  patience 

—  that's   a  sort  of  analogy.     When   I   read  your 
book  I  realised  at  once  that  if  ever  you  were  to  meet 
me  in  a  crowd  you  would  only  have  to  look  at  me  to 
understand.     Each  time  I  read  it  I  seemed  to  know 
you  better,  I  seemed  to  see  your  eyes  glued  on  me,  I 
seemed  to  hear  your  voice  telling  me  .  .  ." 

"  Mind  what  you  say !  "  interrupted  Hazell  sud- 
denly. 

The  stranger  rose  from  his  seat,  slowly  ap- 
proached him  and  then  slowly  retraced  his  steps. 

"  In  your  book,"  he  murmured,  "  you  unbare  the 
heart  of  a  man  who  has  committed  a  revolting  crime 

—  yes,  just  listen  to  what  I  say!  —  you  don't  gloss 
anything  over,  you  don't  make  it  romantic  like  some 
psychologists  would,  but  you  -~-  you  explain." 

"  What's  this?  —  a  confession?  "  Hazell  cried  out. 

The  stranger  started. 

"  Confession !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Who's  talk- 
ing about  confession  ?  "  he  shouted.  And  be  began  to 
laugh  unsteadily.  "  A  lot  of  nonsense !  What  have 
I  got  to  confess?  That's  you  novelists  all  over. 

83 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Living  in  a  perpetual  crisis.  Every  one  has  to  com- 
mit murders  or  something.  I  beg  to  be  excused. 
I'm  an  ordinary  person."  He  seemed  very  irritated. 

Hazell  smiled.  He  felt  that  something  was  com- 
ing out  presently.  "  What's  the  good  of  all  these 
lies?  "  he  thought  spitefully.  All  the  same  he  under- 
stood. 

"  You  didn't  come  here  to  tell  me  you  were  an 
ordinary  person,  I  presume,"  he  remarked. 

The  stranger  frowned. 

"  Suppose  I've  got  better  stories  in  my  head  than 
any  of  yours,"  he  murmured.  "  Suppose  I've  been 
thinking  to  myself, '  I  wish  I  could  see  that  fellow  and 
give  him  some  of  my  ideas.'  Eh?  Well,  that's  ex- 
actly the  truth  of  the  matter.  Here  am  I  brimful 
of  ideas.  I'm  not  a  literary  man  —  no,  thank  you  — 
but  I've  got  the  ideas  right  enough.  Here's  one. 
Imagine  that  one  night  you  were  to  arrive  in  London 
very  late  and  were  to  get  out  at  Waterloo  Station. 
Imagine  you  had  never  been  in  London  before.  Well, 
out  you  get  and  you  begin  to  look  about  for  some 
place  to  sleep.  You've  only  got  a  bag  and  very  little 
money.  So  you  walk  here  and  there  through  all 
these  streets  of  small  houses.  You  don't  really  know 
where  you  are.  By  and  by  you  see  *  room  to  let ' 
stuck  up  in  a  window.  So  you  knock  and  a  horrible 
old  woman  peeps  out  from  above  and  asks  what  you 
want.  You  tell  her  you  want  the  room  and  then 

84 


Midnight 

she  bangs  the  window  to  and  you  hear  her  calling 
out  to  some  one  inside.  Steps  keep  going  up  and 
down.  And  just  as  you  begin  to  think  '  There's 
nothing  to  be  got  here,'  she  peeps  out  again  and  tries 
to  get  a  good  look  at  you.  '  What  about  that  room 
of  yours?  '  you  shout  at  her.  '  Coming,  coming,  all 
in  good  time,'  she  calls  back.  Then  slam  goes  the 
window  again  and  more  talk  inside  and  steps  still 
going  up  and  down  —  a  whole  regiment  of  steps.  At 
last  down  she  comes  and  opens  the  door  for  you. 
Begins  to  spin  a  yarn  about  the  sheets  being  changed 
or  such  like.  You  can't  be  bothered  to  listen  to  that 
sort  of  thing.  All  the  house  is  dark  and  quite  silent. 
Every  one's  gone  except  the  old  woman.  '  This  way, 
sir,  this  way  to  your  room,'  she  croaks.  You  stumble 
up  some  beastly  steps.  *  Why  the  Devil  don't  you 
show  a  light? '  you  ask.  She  strikes  a  match.  Ah, 
what  a  mean  hole  it  is !  '  Here's  the  room,'  she  says, 
*  I'll  light  a  candle  for  you.'  You  look  round.  It's 
a  big  room,  much  bigger  than  you  expected,  and  as 
bare  as  a  board.  Whitewash  on  the  walls.  And  the 
old  woman  has  melted  away,  gone  before  you  can 
turn  round.  You  listen  at  the  door.  *  Where 
the  deuce  have  all  these  people  got  to?  '  you  think, 
'  suppose  they  come  creeping  out  again  like 
rats.'  .  .  ." 

The  stranger  suddenly  stopped. 

"  It's  not  much  of  a  story  after  all,"  he  observed  in 
85 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


a  detached  voice.  "  Besides,  I  think  I  must  have 
heard  it  somewhere.  But  suppose  in  that  house, 
quite  out  of  sight,  in  a  nasty  great  box  full  of  saw- 
dust, there  was  lying  the  bent-up,  warm,  naked  body 
of  a  man  —  bah,  it's  all  very  odious  now  that  I  think 
of  it!  I  won't  finish  it.  But  here's  another  idea. 
Imagine  that  a  respectable  person  is  just  going  to 
bed  in  Russell  Square  one  cold  winter  night  when  he 
hears  a  terrific  knocking  at  his  front  door.  The 
servants  are  asleep  long  ago.  Down  he  runs,  un- 
fastens the  door,  and  into  the  hall  there  staggers  a 
man  dripping  wet,  all  his  clothes  oo/ing  with  water, 
liis  boots  squelching  over  the  Turkey  carpet.  An 
outrageous  person.  Both  are  speechless,  one  with 
astonishment,  the  other  for  lack  of  breath.  The  in- 
truder is  a  man  like  a  sailor  —  only  not  really  like  a 
sailor.  He  has  a  beard.  And  do  you  know  what  he 
wants  the  other  man  to  do?  He  wants  him  to  sew 
some  bank  notes  into  the  lining  of  his  coat.  Of 
course  the  story's  absurd  because  no  one  ever  knows 
who  he  is  or  anything  about  him.  That's  the  whole 
point.  And  then,  just  think,  he  makes  the  respect- 
able householder  take  charge  of  a  manuscript  for 
him.  And  it  appears  afterwards  that  the  manu- 
script is  utterly  unimportant  (something  about 
beetles  in  Yucatan,  very  amateurish)  and  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  story  at  all.  Really,  I  don't  know 
why  one  should  bring  it  in.  But,  at  any  rate,  sev- 

86 


Midnight 

eral  years  later  a  letter  comes  from  Australia  de- 
manding its  return  and  saying  nothing  about  any- 
thing else,  and  that's  the  end." 

It  was  evident  that  the  stranger  was  hardly  listen- 
ing to  his  own  words. 

"  I  say,"  he  remarked  all  at  once,  as  though  a  no- 
tion had  just  occurred  to  him,  "  do  you  ever  have 
fearful  dreams?  I  do.  The  other  night  I  dreamed 
that  I  was  gazing  at  the  fire  and  suddenly,  as  I  gazed, 
I  could  see  that  the  whole  affair  was  gently  moving 
up  and  down  like  a  person  breathing.  That's  very 
extraordinary,  I  thought.  So  I  looked  closer  and 
I  saw  that  inside  the  fire,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
coals,  there  was  stuck  the  enormous  white  face  of  a 
pig  —  ah,  you  never  saw  anything  so  white !  —  and 
that  it  was  breathing  slowly  and  evenly  and  winking 
at  me  in  the  highest  good  humour.  It  j  ust  seemed  to 
say,  *  I  get  three  hours  all  to  myself  every  afternoon 
and  I  spend  the  whole  of  it  drinking  lemonade.'  How 
disgustingly  silly !  I  woke  myself  up  double  quick, 
I  can  tell  you.  But  it's  no  good  bothering  about 
dreams.  Only  last  night  I  dreamed  that  I  was  talk- 
ing to  Louis  XIV,  and  it  was  very  dull.  He  would 
hold  forth  on  etiquette  and  *  le  pauvre  Roi  d'Angle- 
terre,'  as  he  called  him.  I  was  frightfully  bored. 
I  wanted  to  hear  something  about  his  ladies. 
Finally,  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  *  Come,  do  dry 
up ! '  I  bellowed.  You  would  have  laughed  to  see  his 

87 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


expression.  His  eyes  positively  bulged.  *  Excuse 
me,  that's  quite  improper,'  he  mumbled,  '  I  must  go 
and  consult  the  Chef  du  Protocol.'  At  that  I  simply 
guffawed,  because  every  one  knows  that  the  Chef  du 
Protocol  is  an  institution  of  the  Third  Republic. 
Fancy  Louis  XIV  making  such  a  howler !  I  was  ac- 
tually laughing  when  I  woke  up." 

"  I  daresay  you  were,"  observed  Hazell  by  way  of 
saying  something. 

"  Yes,  I  was  laughing  quite  out  loud.  There  were 
the  tears  running  down  my  cheeks.  It  was  the  most 
preposterous  thing." 

Although  the  stranger  spoke  like  this  about  his 
dream,  the  recollection  of  it  did  not  really  seem  to 
amuse  him.  On  the  contrary,  his  face  had  grown 
more  and  more  sombre.  He  suddenly  looked  keenly 
and,  as  it  were,  darkly  at  Hazell. 

"That's  all  rot  that  I've  been  telling  you,"  he 
muttered. 

"  Well,  of  course,"  assented  Hazell  politely  and  as 
though  it  were  not  a  point  worth  discussing. 

The  other  bit  his  lips. 

"  So  much  for  dreams  then,"  he  conceded.  "  And 
as  for  short  stories  —  Pooh !  I  daresay  you  think 
that  any  ass  could  go  on  plotting  short  stories  for- 
ever. So  they  could.  Don't  you  know  what  the 
Frenchman  said  about  ideas?  It's  when  you  get  to 
something  big  that  the  difficulty  comes  in.  So  just 

88 


Midnight 

let  me  tell  you  that  I've  planned  the  whole  scheme  of 
a  long  novel.  It's  not  easy  to  explain,  but  it's  about 
a  man  in  the  tropics,  entangled  physically  and  men- 
tally in  a  vast  maze  of  lagoons.  If  you  can  under- 
stand, the  story  is  like  a  sort  of  realistic  Lady  of 
Shallot.  That's  the  great  thing  about  it  —  it's  ab- 
solutely realistic ;  and  yet,  in  a  way,  it's  not  realistic 
at  all.  It'll  be  very  lengthy.  And  every  day,  as  he 
rows  by  himself  far  from  land  and  gazes  at  his  image 
reflected  eternally  in  the  water,  gorgeous  ideas  flood 
his  brain,  washing  slowly  over  it  as  the  tide  washes 
over  the  seaweed  of  the  pools.  You  needn't  laugh  — 
it  won't  be  a  bit  like  Robinson  Crusoe.  And  the  la- 
goons stretch  endlessly,  for  miles,  right  out  to  sea, 
divided  by  low  coral  ridges,  a  sort  of  mirror  of  lovely 
and  poisonous  calm.  I  assure  you  it  will  be  the  most 
realistic  novel  ever  written.  Do  you  find  that  hard 
to  believe?  You  see,  all  I've  told  you  is  only  a  kind 
of  background.  The  real  story  has  to  do  with  an 
escape.  And,  do  you  know,  in  spite  of  what  I  said 
before,  I'm  going  to  write  this  story  myself  one  of 
these  days.  It'll  be  awfully  thrilling.  At  any  rate, 
I  may  write  it.  I  can't  say.  Certainly  no  one  else 
would  be  able  to,  for  I'm  sure  I  could  never  even 
explain  my  idea  properly  to  any  one  else.  Well, 
never  mind." 

He  stopped  abruptly.     It  seemed  to  Hazell  that 
he  had  been  making  intense  efforts  all  this  time  to 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


keep  off  a  subject  close  to  his  mind.  He  was  ob- 
viously very  uneasy. 

"  Look  here,"  he  began  after  a  silence  of  nearly  a 
minute,  "  what  you  novelists  ought  to  do  is  to  write 
idealistic  stories.  That's  my  real  belief.  For  years 
I've  been  haunted  by  one  scene.  Imagine  some  great 
park  in  the  South  of  England  stretching  round  an 
old  red-brick  Tudor  mansion.  All  is  still.  It's 
nearly  ten  o'clock  on  a  June  evening  and  it's  getting 
quite  dark.  There's  a  sort  of  glow  in  the  sky.  And 
somewhere  by  the  chestnut  trees  the  owner  of  it  all 
is  walking  with  the  girl  he  loves ;  and  she  loves  him. 
They  don't  speak,  they  listen  to  the  silence.  And  in 
the  sky  the  last  glow  is  fading  away." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  It  strikes  you  as  very  commonplace,  I  daresay," 
he  added  presently,  "  but  don't  you  realise  the  point? 
It's  happiness  I'm  thinking  of !  Happiness !  " 

He  rested  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is  I  go  on  talking  like  this," 
he  continued  wearily.  "  I  really  came  here  to  dis- 
cuss your  book  with  you.  Yes,  it  was  an  extraor- 
dinary book.  Sometimes  as  I  read  it  I  felt  con- 
vinced that  you  must  know  all  about  me.  I  thought 
that  if  you  were  to  see  me  you  would  immediately  ap- 
proach and  say  to  me,  '  Look,  there  is  no  crime,  how- 
ever abominable,  that  cannot  be  understood.'  I  went 
further  —  I  persuaded  myself  that  you  were  at  that 

90 


Midnight 

very  instant  on  your  way  to  me.  I  would  close  your 
book  and  listen  for  your  footsteps  without,  for  the 
ring  of  your  bell.  .  .  .  And  at  last,  I  have  sought 
you  here.  .  .  .'* 

"  Hum,  he's  a  criminal,  is  he?  "  thought  Hazell. 
His  interest  was  rising  from  moment  to  moment. 

"  I  —  conceal  nothing,"  murmured  the  stranger 
as  slowly  as  though  the  words  were  being  hauled  out 
of  a  well. 

Hazell  got  up  and  immediately  sat  down  again. 

He  told  me  that  at  that  instant  he  would  have  given 
worlds  for  the  man  to  have  gone  at  once.  His  inter- 
est was  all  frozen  within  him. 

"  Let  me  advise  you  to  be  careful,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"  Come,  that's  enough !  I'm  sick  of  telling  lies. 
Will  you  listen  to  me  or  not? "  interrupted  the 
stranger  suddenly  in  a  loud  and  unpleasant  tone. 

Hazell  tried  to  smile  but  it  was  not  very  success- 
ful. He  nodded  his  head. 

They  continued  to  regard  one  another  for  several 
minutes  without  a  word  being  spoken.  Between  them, 
on  the  table,  the  bag  appeared  all  at  once,  monstrous, 
sinister,  filling  the  whole  room. 

"  Why  do  you  write  about  crime  ?  "  asked  the 
stranger  at  length. 

Hazell  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  replied  vaguely,  "  it's  interest- 
91 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


ing."     He  was  not  thinking  of  the  question  but  of  the 
questioner. 

"  .Well,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  of  a  crime.  But 
don't  be  misled  beforehand.  Nothing  interesting 
there.  It's  in  books  that  crime  is  interesting,  only  in 
books.  Like  disease.  Crime  and  romance.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  Hazell  again. 

"  I  —  I  am  the  man  who  — " 

"  Stop,  no  names !  "  exclaimed  the  novelist  rap- 
idly. "  No  names,  I  say !  Tell  it  to  me  without 
names." 

The  stranger  suddenly  laughed,  only  to  be  im- 
mediately silent.  His  face  had  become  extremely 
gloomy. 

"  It  was  jealousy,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  A 
horrible  story.  Most  horrible.  By  a  lake  —  at 
night  —  do  you  remember?  " 

"You  didn't—?"  began  Hazell. 

"  Yes." 

The  stranger  got  up  from  his  seat,  trembling  all 
over. 

"  I  strangled  her,"  he  added  in  a  whisper. 

Hazell,  who  felt  very  cold,  cast  a  glance  at  the  bag. 

"  These  pigeons  —  you  recollect  ?  —  I  laughed  at 
them,"  proceeded  the  other  in  a  dazed  voice ; 
"  laughed  at  them  —  it  was  just  before  —  isn't  that 
what  madmen  do  ?  " 

92 


Midnight 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair,  covering  his  face  with 
both  hands. 

"Pigeons?  —  what  pigeons  are  you  talking 
about?"  muttered  Hazell.  But  after  a  minute  he 
continued  hurriedly,  "  If  you  had  been  in  your  right 
mind  you  would  never  have  done  this." 

His  visitor  looked  contemptuously  at  him. 

"  Don't  you  know  better  than  that  ?  "  was  all  he 
said. 

"  Then  why  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  Why?  Remorse  —  that's  why !  Agony,  torture 
—  isn't  that  enough  ?  I  don't  want  absolution,  I 
want  a  reason,  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  to  tell  me.  .  .  ." 
His  eyes  were  positively  glaring.  "  You,  who  know 
about  these  things,  tell  me !  " 

Hazell  did  not  reply. 

"  You  don't  say  anything,"  supplemented  the 
other,  "  but  I  know  what  you're  thinking. 
You're  thinking  that  there  are  innumerable  shades 
of  sanity,  motive,  self-consciousness,  responsibility, 
and  so  on  —  you  mean  to  trot  them  out  for  my 
benefit.  You  needn't!  I  know  everything  about 
that.  Some  people  say  that  all  crime  is  a  disease 
and  that  therefore  you  cannot  be  responsible  even 
though  you  know  you  are.  What  rubbish!  Soph- 
istry! Besides,  pardon  my  saying  it,  but  how  can 
you  be  sure  that  I'm  not  concealing  something  from 

93 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


you  all  the  time  or  tingeing  what  I  tell  you  with  some 
sort  of  a  bias?  " 

"  I  can't  be  sure  —  perhaps  you  are,"  murmured 
Hazell. 

"  Yes,  but  what  then? "  insisted  the  other  dis- 
tractedly, "  the  fact  remains,  oh,  that  remains !  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Hazell ;  and  he  proceeded  firmly, 
"  there  is  something  much  more  important  than  sub- 
tleties. Whatever  you  could  tell  me,  still  I  know 
quite  well  that  you  were  not  in  your  right  mind." 

"  I  —  you  mean  ?  —  you  are  sure  ?  "  muttered  the 
stranger  in  great  agitation.  "  No,  it's  nonsense ! 
Get  away  with  all  that  talk!  Get  away  with  it! 
It's  real  what  I'm  telling  you !  Look,  here  in  this 
bag — ."  And  he  made  as  though  to  open  it. 

Hazell  was  seized  with  horror.  He  had  been 
guarding  against  this  from  the  very  beginning. 

"  Don't !  "  he  shouted  — "  you  leave  that  bag 
closed !  Do  you  hear  ?  Put  it  down !  " 

They  remained,  the  two  of  them,  staring  insanely 
at  one  another. 

"  No  need  —  for  that,"  said  Hazell  with  difficulty. 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  before  the  motion- 
less and  seated  stranger.  Suddenly  he  stopped  in 
front  of  him  and  asked  in  a  singular  voice,  "Why 
was  it  you  came  here  with  that  bag?  " 

"  You  —  you  know  quite  well." 

"  Yes,  I  know  quite  well,"  answered  Hazell,  who 
94 


Midnight 

had  approached  his  face  very  close  to  that  of  the 
other  man,  "  I  know  quite  well,  but  I  want  you  to 
tell  me." 

"  Because  you,  alone,  can  explain." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  the  bag,  the  bag !     Think !  " 

Their  faces  were  almost  touching. 

"Attend  to  me!"  said  Hazell  at  last.  "You 
bring  evidence.  Why  do  you  do  that?  " 

The  other  remained  obstinately  silent. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you?  "  proceeded  Hazell  in  a  new 
and  authoritative  tone.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  why  you 
have  not  destroyed  that  evidence?  Shall  I  tell  you 
why  you  took  it  ?  "  He  did  not  wait  for  a  response 
but  added  immediately,  "  You  took  it  because  you 
knew  that  some  day  or  other  you  would  confess." 

The  man  rose  and  approached  Hazell.  His  whole 
face  had  become  wonderfully  bright. 

"  I  say,  just  repeat  that,"  he  murmured,  with  an 
idiotic  smile. 

"  You  have  all  along  intended  to  confess,"  said 
Hazell  gravely. 

"  You  swear  it?  " 

"  Yes,  I  swear  it." 

"  God,  Thou  hast  not  totally  deserted  me !  "  cried 
his  visitor:  "Thou  art  merciful  —  blessed,  blessed 
be  Thy  name!" 

A  rapturous  expression  had  overspread  his  face. 
Hazell  waited  for  what  would  happen.  He  did  not 

95 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


know  why  what  he  had  just  said  should  so  have 
lightened  the  murderer's  heart.  But  his  psycho- 
logical instinct  had  been  true.  That's  where  these 
novelists  have  the  pull. 

By  now  the  stranger  was  walking  impetuously  up 
and  down  the  room.  "  Oh,  I  cannot  speak !  "  burst 
from  him.  "  You  have  washed  away  all  my  bitter- 
ness. What  does  anything  matter  now  that  I  am 
at  rest?  To-morrow  I  shall  confess  all.  Let  me 
go! " 

Hazell  let  him  go  forth  without  a  word. 

The  most  inconceivable  part  of  this  story  is  really 
the  end.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  —  Hazell  never 
tried  to  find  out  anything  further.  So  he  says,  at 
any  rate.  He  never  even  read  the  paper  on  the  fol- 
lowing days.  Amazing  man !  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  knew  enough.  What  could  details  tell  him?  Be- 
sides, you  understand,  an  artist  must  keep  his  at- 
mosphere intact.  (Forgive  my  cynicism.)  To  this 
day  he  is  not  certain  whether  the  stranger  did  ac- 
tually confess  or  not  —  he  is  not  even  certain 
whether  he  had  anything  to  confess.  (By  the  way, 
are  you?)  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  was  an  escaped 
lunatic.  I  repeat,  Amazing  man !  His  idea  is  suf- 
ficient for  him.  He  won't  discuss  the  matter  or 
allow  any  one  to  tell  him  anything.  But  I  strongly 
suspect  that  he  may  make  use  of  it  one  of  these  days 

96 


Midnight 

in  a  book —  (again  I  must  crave  your  forgiveness) 
—  for  I  notice  that  he  is  beginning  to  be  known  as 
"  Our  English  Dostoievsky." 


97 


HIS  KINGDOM 


HIS  KINGDOM 

I  HAD  gone  into  the  store  to  buy  a  pound  of 
bacon  and  was  rather  surprised  to  find  the 
equable  Mrs.  Klip  in  a  state  of  open  revolt 
against  destiny.  It  is  true  that  her  late  husband 
had  failed  on  three  separate  occasions  and  that  she 
had  been  left  a  widow  only  a  year  ago  with  six  small 
children  and  debts  sufficient  to  warrant  a  fourth 
bankruptcy,  but,  knowing  her  as  I  did,  I  should 
never  have  expected  a  word  of  complaint. 

"  No,  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  rolled  the  bacon  in  a  piece  of  paper. 

"  Can't  stand  what,  Mrs.  Klip?  "  I  enquired  po- 
litely. 

"  The  whole  thing,"  she  replied  with  indigna- 
tion. "  Think  of  it,  Mr.  Brown  has  taken  to  drink 
now ! " 

"  Mr.  Brown  taken  to  drink  ?  "  I  repeated  incred- 
ulously. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  insisted  bitterly.  "  He's 
liquoring  up  in  the  back-room  at  the  present  mo- 
ment." 

I  was  greatly  shocked.  I  couldn't  imagine  Mr. 
101 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Brown  "  liquoring  up  "  anywhere.  He  was  not  that 
sort  of  person  at  all.  "  Why,  he  must  be  nearly 
sixty,"  I  said  to  myself  —  not,  indeed,  that  age  is 
any  criterion  of  respectability  but  I  was  thinking 
rather  of  his  grave  deportment  and  assured  posi- 
tion. For  in  the  short  time  he  had  been  with  Mrs. 
Klip  (he  had  appeared  from  some  remote  corner  of 
the  Orange  Free  State  in  reply  to  her  advertise- 
ment) he  had  become  universally  esteemed  and  had 
managed  the  store  so  commendably  that  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  staving  off  the  fourth  bankruptcy. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Klip,  what  can  have  happened  to  him  ?  " 
I  stammered. 

"  He's  broken  out,  that's  all,"  she  replied  vin- 
dictively. 

Mr.  Brown  "  broken  out " —  it  was  a  horrible 
thought!  For  I  must  tell  you  that  I  had  a  high 
opinion  of  Mr.  Brown  and  considered  him  one  of  my 
friends.  At  first,  it  is  true,  I  had  been  rather  re- 
pelled by  the  cold  propriety  of  his  bearing  (so  dif- 
ferent to  that  of  the  late  Klip),  but,  happening  one 
day  to  enter  the  store  as  he  was  giving  an  extremely 
graphic  description  of  how  to  eat  a  naartje,  I  had 
suddenly  taken  a  liking  to  him  and  had  resolved  to 
"  draw  him  out."  I  had  not  been  very  successful  in 
the  ordinary  sense,  that  is  to  say  I  had  learned 
nothing  of  Mr.  Brown's  personal  history,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  the  experience  for  anything. 

102 


His  Kingdom 


Mr.  Brown  was  a  very  remarkable  man.  Many  a 
Sunday  walk  we  had  taken  together  over  the  veldt  or 
along  the  reedy  banks  of  the  river.  He  would  never 
come  to  my  farm  but  we  used  to  meet  by  appoint- 
ment outside  the  store.  He  would  wait  for  me  there 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  loquot  tree.  Standing 
very  still,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  distance,  he 
had  an  absorbed  and  venerable  appearance.  In  his 
slouch  hat  and  with  his  long  grey  beard  he  looked 
more  like  a  Boer  patriarch  than  an  Englishman.  I 
used  to  come  upon  him  suddenly  round  a  corner  of 
the  road.  He  was  invariably  alone.  Mrs.  Klip  and 
her  six  children  would  be  sleeping  after  their  Sunday 
dinner,  her  sister,  the  post-mistress,  would  be  "  carry- 
ing on,"  out  of  sight,  with  one  of  her  young  men, 
while  even  that  famous  bore  (and  retired  school- 
master) Mrs.  Klip's  father,  would  be  dozing  in  his 
patch  of  garden  at  the  back  with  a  pipe  between  his 
lips. 

Mr.  Brown  would  greet  me  without  a  smile  and  to- 
gether we  would  start  walking  across  the  veldt.  He 
was  fond  of  discussing  matters  of  botany  and  natural 
history.  "  I  have  studied  these  questions  a  little," 
he  would  add  apologetically.  The  excuse  was  quite 
superfluous  —  he  was  an  expert. 

"  Three  things  have  been  named  after  me,"  he 
once  confided  in  a  moment  of  expansion,  "  one  of 
your  Cape  heaths,  the  son  of  a  chief,  and  a  cray- 

103 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


fish  from   the  Zambesi  —  it  was   a  long  time  ago." 

"  You  have  been  a  collector  ?  "  I  hazarded. 

"  Amongst  other  things,"  he  answered  drily. 

I  did  not  press  the  subject. 

He  had  a  habit  of  stopping  suddenly,  after  a  long 
spell  of  silent  walking,  and  of  flourishing  his  hand 
round  the  whole  circuit  of  the  valley. 

"  I  often  think,"  he  would  say,  "  that  one  day 
some  one  will  arise  who  will  be  able  to  give  a  voice 
to  all  this." 

He  would  nod  his  head,  digging  his  stick  into  the 
dry  earth  of  the  veldt. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  would  add  pensively. 

He  was  not  given  to  following  out  aloud  such 
trains  of  fancy.  That,  perhaps,  was  why  he  ap- 
peared so  enigmatic  to  me.  For,  after  all,  though 
he  had  not  told  me  his  history  I  could  guess  at  that. 
South  Africa  is  full  of  wandering  Englishmen,  edu- 
cated men,  men  of  ability,  who  have  lost  every  home- 
tie  and  who  have  grown  old  in  failure.  One  soon 
gets  used  to  them.  And  yet  Mr.  Brown  did  not  quite 
fit  the  picture  —  there  was  no  trembling  about  his 
mouth,  no  talk  of  former  importance  (if  you  except 
the  story  of  the  Zambesi  crayfish,  etc.),  no  hauteur 
ending  in  sentimental  tears.  He  was  one  of  the 
few  men  I  have  ever  known  whose  dignity  was  a  com- 
plete protection.  He  would  serve  Cape  Boys  with 
the  same  air  with  which  he  might  have  greeted  the 

104? 


His  Kingdom 


President  of  the  Royal  Society.  His  manner  was, 
at  once,  cheerful  and  reticent.  Mrs.  Klip  and  her 
family  adored  him  and  even  Mrs.  Klip's  father,  who 
had  never  been  known  to  talk  about  any  one  but  him- 
self, once  observed  to  me  at  the  end  of  a  long  con- 
versation that  Mr.  Brown  was  "  an  excellent  listener 
and  full  of  agreeable  information."  As  this  remark 
appeared  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  subject  in 
hand,  I  suppose  it  may  very  well  have  been  aimed  at 
me,  but  all  the  same,  considering  the  source,  I  re- 
gard it  as  a  singular  piece  of  testimony.  Yes,  no- 
body knew  anything  about  Mr.  Brown  and  every- 
body respected  him.  You  may  well  ask  why.  In 
the  natural  course  of  events  he  was  just  the  sort  of 
man  South  Africans  would  have  looked  askance  at. 
Probably  I  was  the  only  person  who  knew  that  he 
was  learned,  a  philosopher,  a  man  of  imagination, 
but  I  think  he  impressed  every  one  by  his  personal- 
ity. And  that's  the  great  secret  of  power  after  all, 
this  genius  that  comes  to  one  without  effort,  this 
magnetic  influence  which  can  make  him  a  man  or  —  or 
destroy  him.  .  .  . 

Still,  if  he  did  not  quite  fit  the  picture,  it  was 
probable,  all  the  same,  that  he  did  belong  to  the 
great  category  of  South  African  failures.  As  we 
walked  leisurely  across  the  veldt  I  would  give  him  an 
occasional  side-glance,  trying  to  pierce,  so  to  speak, 
his  everlasting  reserve.  All  in  vain.  He  would 

105 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


make  these  rather  strange  remarks  of  his  without  so 
much  as  turning  a  hair.  He  was  an  enigma.  I 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  asking  him  intimate 
questions  about  himself  as  I  would  have  of  knocking 
him  on  the  head.  Being  with  him  was  like  being 
with  a  monarch  (a  monarch  who  would  have  been 
delighted  to  sell  you  some  tinned  asparagus)  — you 
instinctively  waited  for  him  to  suggest  subjects  of 
conversation.  It  sounds  absurd,  I  daresay,  but  it's 
quite  true. 

I  remember  that  one  Sunday  afternoon  we  had 
wandered  down  to  the  river  and  finding  a  yellow  bank 
of  sand  between  the  reeds  had  sat  there  watching  the 
shadows  deepen  upon  the  mountains.  We  were  later 
than  usual  and  the  water,  stealing  by  us  in  the  dusk, 
had  grown  indistinct  before  we  rose  to  go.  We  had 
not  spoken  for  nearly  an  hour  but  at  the  moment  of 
departure  old  Brown  said  to  me  in  that  odd  way  he 
had  of  talking  apropos  of  nothing :  — 

"  On  the  slope  above  Cayley's  farm,  where  they 
are  ploughing  up  the  soil  to  plant  vines,  they  have 
found  a  number  of  stone  arrow-heads."  He  paused 
to  make  in  the  sand  these  eternal  dim  designs  with 
his  stick.  "  An  extinct  race,"  he  continued  medita- 
tively :  "  they  have  left  no  record,  there  is  no  history 
in  this  land,  and  yet  here,  on  the  veldt,  I  feel  the 
passage  of  thousands  of  years."  He  waved  his  hand 
over  the  dark  valley  on  which  the  silence  of  the 

106 


His  Kingdom 


African  night  had  already  fallen.  "  Thousands  of 
years,"  he  muttered  again  in  a  low  voice.  I  waited 
for  him  to  say  something  more.  You  know,  one  oc- 
casionally has,  quite  illogically,  these  strange  and  ex- 
pectant moments.  Around  us  all  was  peaceful. 
Over  the  darkness  of  the  veldt  the  pipits  were  rising 
and  falling  with  their  melancholy  whistle.  The  river 
gurgled  in  the  reeds,  the  frogs  croaked,  and  the  great 
mountains,  black  against  the  sky,  appeared  like 
sentinels  watching  the  valley.  And  I  listened  for 
his  voice  as  though  suddenly  I  should  hear  words 
that  would  illuminate  the  dark  history  of  this  ancient 
land.  Yes,  I  listened  intently.  And  he  said  nothing 
more,  not  a  word.  But  he  sighed  deeply,  as  though 
he,  too,  were  very  old  and  his  past  life  all  forgotten, 
useless,  and  lost  forever. 

We  walked  home  without  exchanging  a  word. 

For  some  reason  or  other  this  scene,  especially, 
had  made  a  great  impression  on  me.  Every  time 
Mr.  Brown  sold  me  things  over  the  counter  I  used 
to  recall  it  with  amazement.  It  was  not,  perhaps, 
so  much  what  he  had  said  as  the  feeling  that  he  could 
have  said  so  much  more  —  well,  I  can't  quite  explain. 
But,  as  I  say,  it  used  to  make  me  look  at  him  in 
amazement,  as  he  stood  there  serenely  aloof  behind 
the  wooden  counter,  with  the  rows  of  bottles  level 
with  his  head,  and  the  smell  of  sawdust  and  cheese 
filling  the  hot  air.  .  .  . 

107 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


And  this,  this  was  the  man  who  had  been  "  liquor- 
ing up "  in  the  back-room !  No,  impossible !  I 
gazed  at  Mrs.  Klip  in  bewilderment. 

"  You  can't  mean  it,"  insisted. 

Mrs.  Klip  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Go  in  and  see  for  yourself,"  she  recommended 
disdainfully. 

I  passed  behind  the  counter  and  through  the 
passage  into  a  squalid  room,  which  was  in  semi- 
twilight  and  which  appeared  to  be  half  bed-chamber 
and  half  store-cupboard.  Cases  of  mottled  soap, 
sugar,  tinned  milk,  and  bags  of  coffee  were  piled  up 
along  one  side  and  on  the  other  was  a  truckle-bed  on 
which  Mr.  Brown  was  lying  half-dressed.  There 
was  something  tragic  and  grotesque  about  his  ap- 
pearance. He  looked  tousled  like  a  little  wild  man 
of  the  woods  caught  in  a  trap.  He  lay  on  his  back 
with  his  grey  beard  sprawling  across  his  chest  and 
one  hand  over  on  the  floor  clasping  an  empty  bottle 
of  Cape  brandy.  He  was  talking  rapidly  to  himself 
and  with  his  loose  hand  he  kept  making  commanding 
gestures  at  the  ceiling.  His  face  wore  a  severe  and 
almost  majestic  expression  but  drops  of  sweat  were 
hailing  down  his  forehead  and  his  dull  eyes  were 
half  closed.  He  had  evidently  not  noticed  my  en- 
trance. I  couldn't  make  out  what  he  was  saying 
but  he  seemed  to  be  repeating  words  like,  "  My 
future,  my  future  ".  .  . 

108 


His  Kingdom 


I  went  across  the  room  and  standing  by  his  bed  I 
said  in  my  ordinary  voice,  "  What  is  the  matter,  old 
friend?  " 

He  looked  at  me  for  an  instant  without  a  flicker 
of  recognition  and  then  turned  away  towards  the 
wall. 

"  Here's  another  of  them,"  he  muttered  in  a  quick, 
husky  whisper,  "  here's  another  of  them.  Get  off ! 
I'm  not  the  man  you  think.  I'm  Brown,  Brown,  the 
Brown.  Ha,  ha!  You  ask  them,  you  ask  them  up 
there.  They  know  me.  Brown  —  that's  my  name. 
O  Lord,  my  future,  my  future !  " 

Suddenly  he  added  in  a  totally  different  voice, 
"Is  that  you?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  round  at  me  out 
of  the  corners. 

"  Hum,  I  thought,"  he  began  — "  have  you  been 
here  long?  "  And  he  wound  up  gloomily,  "  You'd 
best  go  —  I'm  not  well." 

"  I  shall  call  for  you  on  Sunday  as  usual,"  I  re- 
plied cheerfully. 

He  did  not  answer  and  I  went  out  of  the  room. 
What  a  wretched  business  it  was  altogether!  I  felt 
somehow  that  I  should  like  to  slink  away  and  hide 
my  head.  And  coming  out  of  the  passage  the  first 
thing  I  saw  was  the  lugubrious  and  inquisitive  face 
of  Mrs.  Klip. 

109 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  Well,  I  told  you,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  dreary 
satisfaction. 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Klip,  you're  mistaken,"  I  responded 
coldly.  "  I've  been  having  a  conversation  with  Mr. 
Brown.  He's  ill.  That's  what's  the  matter  with 
him." 

Of  course  it  was  no  use  my  saying  anything.  I 
knew  Mrs.  Klip  quite  well  enough  to  be  certain  that 
old  Brown  would  "  go,"  but  I  felt  so  savage  that  I 
could  have  given  her  a  good  shaking. 

"  111 !  "  echoed  that  excellent  woman  with  great 
spirit.  "  It's  the  last  time  he'll  be  ill  like  that  in 
my  house.  And  I  trusting  him  so !  " 

There  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do.  Every  one 
in  the  valley  was  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Klip's  moral 
code.  It  was  all  up  with  Brown  as  far  as  the  store 
was  concerned. 

I  began  to  walk  slowly  homewards.  "  Yes,  this 
is  how  he'll  end,"  I  thought,  seeing,  as  it  were,  the 
whole  of  his  future  before  me  as  clearly  as  the  dusty 
road.  "  Yes,  in  some  miserable  room  in  some  God- 
forsaken store  back  of  nowhere."  I,  too,  like  Mrs. 
Klip,  felt  rebellious  against  destiny.  One  knew  what 
would  happen.  In  a  few  days  Mr.  Brown  would 
simply  melt  out  of  the  valley  as  though  he  had 
never  existed.  People  would  shake  their  heads,  Mrs. 
Klip  would  advertise  for  a  new  store-keeper,  and  in 
a  month  he  would  be  entirely  forgotten.  And  as 

110 


His  Kingdom 


for  old  Brown,  he  would  reappear  presently  a  thou- 
sand miles  away,  with  the  same  charm  of  manner,  the 
same  power  of  persuasion,  and  the  same  "  soft  spot." 

How  plain  it  was !  People  don't  alter  at  that  time 
of  life.  He  would  go  on  and  on,  flitting  mysteri- 
ously over  a  continent,  arriving  suddenly  and  leav- 
ing "  under  a  cloud,"  obliging,  politely-reserved,  and 
utterly  lonely.  And,  at  last,  the  end,  the  inglorious 
death,  the  veldt  grave  —  and  who  would  care  ?  No- 
body, not  a  single  being.  And  all  his  experience, 
his  knowledge,  his  personality  would  go  out  like  a 
spark  that  has  lit  no  fire.  Ah,  these  are  the  most 
hopeless  cases!  .  .  . 

"  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done?  "  I  said  aloud. 

There  was  no  answer.  My  only  audience  was  the 
valley,  lying  bathed  in  early  twilight.  In  its  per- 
fect stillness,  in  the  repose  of  ages,  it  seemed  to  listen 
with  ironical  unconcern.  "  Men  die,  trees  wither,  I 
remain."  So  be  it! 

I  did  not  dare  put  into  words  the  idea  that  had 
floated  across  my  mind.  There  would  be  time 
enough  on  Sunday.  ("  Precious  fool  that  you  are," 
whispered  a  little  inward  voice.)  Yes,  time  enough 
—  wait  till  Sunday. 

But  I  did  not  have  to  wait  till  Sunday.  At  about 
5  o'clock  on  Saturday  afternoon  I  was  coming  up 
towards  my  stoep  when  I  saw  my  house-boy  Koos 
approaching  with  an  air  of  secrecy  and  importance. 

Ill 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


I  have  noticed  that  when  Koos  walks  like  that  it 
generally  means  that  he's  been  too  clever  by  half. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  hanging  about  for? "  I 
asked  him.  roughly. 

Koos,  who  has  a  strong  eye  for  dramatic  situ- 
ations, pointed  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  house. 

"  Dat  dere  Mistah  Brown  waitin'  to  see  you,"  he 
observed  contemptuously. 

(Bad  news  travels  fast  over  the  valley.) 

He  gave  a  superior  smile. 

"Don't  grin  like  that  at  me!"  I  shouted. 
"  Where  is  he  —  in  the  study  ?  " 

Pained  surprise  was  depicted  on  the  face  of  that 
snobbish  individual. 

"  No,  sah,  in  de  passage,"  he  muttered. 

I  didn't  say  anything,  but  I  gave  him  a  glance 
which  I'm  sure  made  him  feel  very  unwell  for  several 
hours,  and  I  ran  past  him  into  the  house. 

In  the  darkest  part  of  the  passage,  just  outside 
the  door  of  my  study,  Mr.  Brown  was  standing 
motionless. 

"  Come,  come  in  here,  Mr.  Brown !  "  I  cried,  fling- 
ing open  the  door ;  "  that  ass  Koos  has  been  making 
a  fool  of  himself  as  usual !  " 

Mr.  Brown,  austere  and  venerable  in  appearance, 
followed  me  quietly  into  the  room.  He  had  not  said 
a  word.  I  bustled  about  with  chairs  and  going  to 
the  window  I  yelled  to  Koos  to  "  hurry  up  with 

112 


His  Kingdom 


some  tea  out  there."  What  had  old  Brown  come 
for,  I  wondered,  not  giving  him  a  chance  to  explain. 
Before  these  critical,  and  unsmiling  eyes  I  felt 
extraordinarily  confused.  I  turned  from  the  window 
and  sat  down  opposite  him. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  could  get  off  on  a  Saturday," 
I  began. 

"  I'm  off  altogether,"  replied  Mr.  Brown  in  a  level 
voice. 

"  Oh,  I  see,  it's  like  that,  is  it? "  I  answered 
lamely. 

He  sat  very  upright,  with  his  grey  beard  flowing 
grandly  over  his  chest  and  an  air  of  solemnity  upon 
his  rugged  face. 

*'  I  have  come  to  see  you  before  I  go,"  he  pro- 
ceeded remorselessly,  "  because  I  owe  you  an  apol- 
ogy. I  have  permitted  you  to  make  a  friend  of 
me  under  false  pretences." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Brown,"  I  said  quickly,  "  you're 
putting  it  all  wrong.  There's  no  question  of  false 
pretences.  I've  always  valued  your  friendship 
highly  and  I  always  will." 

"  Pardon  me,  there  is  nothing  to  value  about  my 
friendship.  You  have  found  that  out  for  yourself." 

"  I  must  be  the  best  judge  of  that,"  I  broke  in 
heartily.  "  Look  here,  Mr.  Brown,  before  you  came 
there  wasn't  a  soul  here  I  cared  to  speak  to.  You've 
made  all  the  difference  in  my  life.  There's  not  a 

118 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


man  to  touch  you  in  the  whole  valley.  And  now  you 
want  to  go  and  clear  out !  No,  it  won't  do,  it  won't 
do,  Mr.  Brown!  I  want  you  to  stay  here  with  me. 
Are  you  listening?  I  want  to  give  you  a  post  on 
my  farm  —  I've  been  meaning  to  ask  you  for  a  long 
time.  Come  and  help  me  with  my  citrous  trees. 
I  ask  you  now  definitely,  Mr.  Brown,  will  you  ?  " 

I  had  risen  and  gone  to  the  window  from  where  I 
could  see  Koos  laying  tea  on  the  stoep.  Mr.  Brown 
was  silent. 

"  Say  yes,"  I  cried  all  at  once,  spinning  round  im- 
petuously, "  say  yes,  Mr.  Brown !  " 

But  Mr.  Brown  sadly  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  I  must  get  away  from  here,"  he  muttered. 

"  But  why,  why  must  you  ?  "  I  expostulated. 

Beneath  its  tan  Mr.  Brown's  skin  seemed  to 
redden. 

"  I  must,"  he  repeated  in  a  firm  tone. 

I  felt  angry.  Why  should  people  behave  like  this  ? 
I  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  fuming  to 
myself.  I  avoided  his  eye. 

After  a  minute  he  added  quietly,  "  Forgive  me,  I 
have  no  choice." 

"No  choice,  Mr.  Brown?  Why,  you  have  only 
to  say  *  Yes  *  and  it's  done.  Your  future  is  as- 
sured." 

Mr.  Brown  got  up  noiselessly  and  joined  me  over 
at  the  window. 

114. 


His  Kingdom 


"  I  am  a  man  without  a  future,"  he  mumbled. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  With  a  dead  past  and  no  future,"  he  continued 
in  the  same  voice,  gazing  straight  out  over  the  veldt. 

I  did  not  say  anything. 

"  I  have  been  in  Africa  nearly  forty  years  and 
they  are  as  blank  as  a  clean  slate.  What  I  have 
done  has  been  forgotten,  what  I  have  felt  has  with- 
ered within  my  heart.  I  am  an  old  man  before  my 
time  —  and  disgraced.  I  have  no  future." 

Grave  and  still  he  stood  in  the  flushed  light  of  the 
window,  facing  the  sweep  of  the  valley. 

"  I  could  have  made  a  great  name.  My  history  is 
the  failure  of  success.  Wherever  I  went  I  had  only 
to  put  out  my  hand.  I  was  like  a  king  going  hither 
and  thither,  invincible.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  and  sighed  deeply  as  I  had  heard  him 
sigh  that  other  evening  by  the  river. 

"  Come  out  onto  the  stoep  and  we  can  talk,"  I 
suggested. 

We  went  out,  sat  down,  and  drank  some  tea.  But 
we  did  not  talk,  not  for  a  long  time.  The  setting 
light  had  caught  the  mountains  and  the  whole  range 
appeared  to  hang  suffused  above  the  sombre  veldt. 

"  And  it  will  be  so  when  we  are  dust,"  said  Mr. 
Brown  suddenly. 

It  was  one  of  those  remarks  which  require  no 
comment. 

115 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  Yes,  when  we  are  dust,"  he  repeated,  as  though 
in  a  dream.  "  Do  you  know  that  when  I  was  a  young 
man  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  world  would 
stop  at  my  death?  I  was  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  I 
had  only  one  desire.  I  wanted  to  bend  everything 
to  my  will.  But  long  ago  a  girl  whispered  in  my 
ear,  *  Oh,  wait  with  me,  if  you  wander  and  wander 
you  will  lose  your  soul.'  How  long  ago !  And  I 
laughed  in  her  face.  I  laughed  loudly,  confidently, 
with  love  in  my  heart.  For  I  thought  to  myself, 
*  I  will  conquer  the  veldt  —  it  is  nothing  —  and  I 
will  return  to  her  then.'  And  behold  - —  I  am  even 
as  you  see  me  now.  And  the  veldt  remains  —  un- 
conquered." 

He  had  risen  and  was  pointing  over  the  earth. 

"  I  never  did  return,"  he  added  softly. 

It  gave  me  an  uncanny  sensation  to  hear  him  speak 
thus,  echoing  as  he  did  so  many  of  my  own  con- 
clusions about  him. 

"  This  land  has  got  hold  of  me,"  he  added  sud- 
denly, "  has  got  into  my  blood.  I  cannot  resist  it. 
It  comes  over  me  from  time  to  time,  the  desire  of 
wandering,  strong  as  life  itself,  and  I  must  go,  I 
must  wander.  I  struggle.  It  has  ruined  me  before 
and  it  will  again  and  again  till  all  is  over.  I  remem- 
ber my  past.  ( If  you  had  listened,*  I  say  to  my- 
self, *  you  would  have  been  happy,  you  would  have 
been  famous.  Yes,  famous  ! ' —  and  now !  I  feel  a 

116 


His  Kingdom 


wild  despair.  I  shut  myself  into  my  room  and  I 
try  to  drown  everything  —  ah,  you  know  !  " 

He  stood  before  me  in  the  dusk,  trembling  with 
passion. 

"  This  time  you  must  stay,"  I  said  to  him. 

**  No,  I  must  start  —  at  once." 

The  glow  was  fading  from  the  mountains.  The 
whole  earth  was  black  as  night  and  a  few  stars  were 
glittering  in  the  deep  sky.  The  sweet,  powerful 
scent  of  the  orchards  was  rising  through  the  warm 
air. 

He  jumped  up. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  he  said  resolutely. 
"  At  eight  o'clock  the  mail-cart  passes  by  the  store. 
I  have  to  pack."  He  hesitated.  "  I  don't  know 
how  to  say  good-bye  to  you.  I  have  done  nothing  to 
deserve  your  kindness.  Every  word  you  say  fills  me 
with  bitterness.  There  is  only  this  —  I  would  have 
stayed  if  it  had  been  possible." 

"  I  will  walk  with  you  so  far,"  I  said. 

And  silently  we  went  towards  the  open  veldt 
through  the  long  groves  of  the  orchards.  There 
was  not  a  breath  of  wind,  not  a  cloud  upon  the  sky. 
All  the  valley  slept,  with  its  dim  contours  grouped 
like  crouching  animals  upon  the  plain  and  its  thou- 
san  night-voices  murmuring  like  the  echo  of  a  far- 
off  sea. 

I  took  leave  of  him  by  the  store.  I  watched  him 
117 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


disappear  inside  and,  turning,  I  made  my  way  home 
through  the  dark.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  repeat,  these  are 
the  most  hopeless  cases.  .  .  . 

I  was  fated  to  see  Mr.  Brown  once  more.  It  was 
three  years  later.  I  had  taken  a  trip  to  Cape  Town 
to  interview  a  Greek  about  some  fruit  business  and, 
having  a  few  days  to  spare,  I  began  to  explore  the 
city.  I  did  it  thoroughly;  I  went  into  all  sorts  of 
places  where  the  residents  of  Rondebosch  and  Rose- 
bank  never  find  themselves.  I  pushed  my  way  into 
the  purlieus  of  mean  streets  where  the  "  poor  "  whites 
of  half  an  Africa  tremble  before  the  curses  of  col- 
oured women  and  eke  out  a  wretched  existence  with 
mongrel  dogs.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  sight  but  it  is 
very  curious.  When  you  stand  upon  the  shoulder 
of  Table  Mountain  and  gaze  upon  the  spreading 
city  outlined  by  blue  ocean  and  violet  range  it  hardly 
occurs  to  you,  perhaps,  that  the  golden  fruit  is  full 
of  rotten  sores.  But  it  is  —  and  as  local  colour  they 
are  worth  a  probe.  .  .  . 

So  one  afternoon,  about  two  o'clock,  I  had  entered 
a  bar  in  the  Salt  River  district.  I  was  thirsty  and 
tired.  Through  the  glass  partition  I  could  see  a 
billiard-room  which  appeared  empty,  and  I  thought 
I  would  take  my  whisky  in  there  and  have  it  in 
peace.  The  girl  behind  the  bar  condescended  to 
give  me  permission.  She  observed  that  there  was 

118 


His  Kingdom 


only  the  marker  inside  and  that  he  was  "  trash  " —  I 
could  do  what  I  liked.  I  thanked  her  graciously 
and  went  into  the  billiard-room. 

Yes,  there  was  only  the  marker  and  lie  was  not 
likely  to  trouble  me.  In  the  quiet  of  the  afternoon 
he  lay  fast  asleep  on  the  settee.  He  had  pulled  a 
dirty  handkerchief  over  his  face,  which  kept  flutter- 
ing up  from  his  mouth  and  sinking  down  again  every 
time  he  breathed.  In  the  stifling  heat  flies  were 
buzzing  noisily  round  his  head,  half-drowning  his 
regular  snores.  His  clothes  were  old,  dirty,  and 
fraying  at  the  edges  and  his  boots  were  down  at 
heel.  Even  in  that  room  of  cracked  mirrors,  with 
loud  advertisements  on  the  walls,  and  its  general  air 
of  dust  and  decay,  he  made  a  sordid  and  ignominious 
picture.  But  at  the  first  sight  of  him  I  had  been 
filled  with  uneasiness.  Where  had  I  seen  that  figure 
before?  He  stirred  suddenly  and  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  grey  and  noble  beard  straggling  from  under 
the  handkerchief.  Good  God  —  it  was  Mr.  Brown ! 
I  sat  down  so  abruptly  that  I  spilt  half  the  contents 
of  the  glass.  The  other  half  I  swallowed  at  a  gulp. 
Mr.  Brown  —  a  billiard-marker !  I  got  up,  went  on 
tip-toe  across  the  room,  and  lifted  a  corner  of  the 
handkerchief.  But  it  was  not  the  big  fly  settling 
upon  his  forehead  that  made  me  drop  it  immediately. 
No,  it  was  something  else  altogether.  On  that  dig- 
nified and  expressive  countenance  the  ravages  of 

119 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


time  had  wrought  a  frightful  change  —  and  not 
only  a  material  change,  do  you  understand?  I  cov- 
ered it  again  as  I  would  have  covered  the  face  of 
a  corpse  .  .  .  Mr.  Brown  would  make  very  few  more 
journeys. 

I  waited  for  an  instant  to  regain  command  of  my- 
self and  then  I  hurried  out  into  the  street.  I  was 
in  need  of  fresh  air.  The  coloured  girl  watched  my 
departure  with  the  most  perfect  indifference  and  I 
—  I  did  not  dare  to  stop  and  question  her.  I  was 
terrified  of  revelations  —  not  even  a  barmaid  would 
have  called  Mr.  Brown  "  trash  "  three  years  ago.  .  .  . 

It  was  my  last  sight  of  that  remarkable  man. 


120 


THE  WOULD-BE  FRIENDS 


THE  WOULD-BE  FRIENDS 

ONE  Saturday  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  a 
young  man  of  about  twenty-five  was  wait- 
ing outside  the  door  of  a  second-hand 
bookseller's  shop  in  Charing  Cross  Road.  He  was 
the  kind  of  young  man  that  is  to  be  seen  anywhere, 
the  nondescript  clerk  type,  rather  undersized,  nom- 
inally clean-shaven,  with  a  pallid,  cunning  expression, 
and  seedy  clothes.  He  seemed  to  be  expecting  some 
one  because  he  kept  looking  impatiently  up  and  down 
the  street.  All  at  once  he  straightened  himself  up 
and  crossed  the  road.  A  man  who  was  walking  rap- 
idly up  from  the  direction  of  Trafalgar  Square  cast 
on  him  a  perfunctory  glance  of  half-recognition  and 
would  have  proceeded  without  a  word  had  not  the 
little  clerk  accosted  him  with  these  words  spoken  in 
a  tone  of  cheeky  deference :  — 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Turner." 

The  other  started  and  looked  at  him  again,  but 
this  time  much  more  closely. 

"  Mr.  Turner  —  yes,  that's  my  name  sure  enough. 
But  who  are  you?  I  seem  to  recognise  you.  Have 
we  met  somewhere?  " 

1M 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


He  spoke  in  a  rather  forced,  jovial  voice.  He  was 
a  man  with  a  certain  "  manner,"  fully  ten  years 
older  than  the  clerk,  and  had  probably  risen  in  life. 

"  In  a  way  of  speaking,  Mr.  Turner.  In  fact,  if 
you  will  allow  me,  that's  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"Talk  to  me?  —  well,  come  along.  I  was  just 
going  in  there  to  get  some  tea." 

He  pointed  up  the  street  and  smiled  patronisingly. 
Then  he  added :  — 

"  By  all  means,  Mr. —  Mr. — " 

"  Mr.  Garbendyke,"  suggested  the  little  clerk  sub- 
serviently. 

"  Mr.  Garbendyke  —  oh  Lord !  Come  along  then, 
Mr.  Garbendyke." 

Mr.  Garbendyke  bit  his  lip  and  an  evil  look  passed 
over  his  unhealthy  face.  He  smiled. 

"  Yes,  it's  an  odd  name,  Mr.  Turner.  It's  done 
me  no  good,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  I  daresay  not.  Never  mind.  It  won't  spoil  my 
tea,  at  any  rate.  Garbendyke  —  oh  Lord !  Come 
along." 

Mr.  Garbendyke  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  up 
with  the  other's  rapid  strides.  Nor  did  he  speak 
again  until  they  were  seated  on  a  plush  lounge  before 
a  marble-topped  table  and  Mr.  Turner  had  ordered 
tea  in  a  loud  and  peremptory  voice.  Then  he  said, 
rubbing  his  chin: — 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


"  You  must  think  me  very  strange,  Mr.  Turner  ?  " 
"  Your  name's  strangej  certainly.     But  what  was 
it  you  were  wanting  to  see  me  about  ?  " 

The  face  of  the  clerk  flushed  for  an  instant  as  he 
replied,  "  Some  business,  Mr.  Turner." 

"  Business  ?  —  oh,  really !     What  business  ?  " 
"  Listen,   Mr.    Turner.     Every   Saturday    after- 
noon you  walk  up  Charing  Cross  Road  like  you  were 
doing  to-day.     Then  when  you've  had  tea  here  you 
walk  down  again,  visiting  all  the  second-hand  book- 
shops on  the  way.     That's  so,  isn't  it?  " 
"  What  are  you  driving  at  ?  —  go  on !  " 
Mr.  Garbendyke  attempted  a  wink  of  familiarity, 
but,  meeting  only  the  stare  of  Mr.  Turner's  eyes, 
went  very  white. 

"  I  know  what  sort  of  books  you  buy,"  he  con- 
cluded lamely. 

"  Oh,  damn,  is  that  all  you  want  to  tell  me?  " 
Mr.  Turner  looked  extremely  annoyed  and  oddly 
nervous. 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Turner.  Just  be  patient.  What  I 
mean  is,  I  know  you  buy  books  that  can  be  sold  again 
at  a  profit.  I've  often  been  astonished.  *  There's 
a  man  who  understands  the  ropes,'  I've  thought  many 
a  time.  I  know  something  about  books,  Mr. 
Turner.  I've  made  my  living  by  them  these  ten 
years  off  and  on.  I  get  them  from  barrows  and  sell 
them  to  the  booksellers.  You  need  knowledge  for 

125 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


that.  Well,  excuse  me.  I've  watched  you  with  ad- 
miration, sir.  *  Here's  a  gentleman  buying  for  his 
library,'  I  used  to  say  to  myself.  But  then  every 
Saturday  —  hum,  I  began  to  wonder.  And  so  many 
books  —  bargains,  dirt  cheap.  *  "  Top  shelf  litera- 
ture "  and  all  that  —  eh  ?  '  If  only  I'd  had  money 
myself.  However,  that's  just  it  —  I  hadn't." 

Mr.  Turner  fidgeted  in  his  seat. 

"  This  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  Garbendyke,  but  posi- 
tively I  can't  .  .  ." 

The  clerk,  who  looked  frightened  and  excited, 
stopped  him  by  holding  up  his  hand. 

"  Please  speak  lower,  Mr. —  Whitelaw,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

The  other  man  half  jumped  out  of  his  seat. 

"  Who  the  hell  are  you  ? "  he  said  in  a  violent 
whisper. 

"I?  —  oh,  I  am  just  what  I  tell  you !  Of  no  im- 
portance. Most  negligible  in  every  way.  Still,  I 
am  a  man  of  ideas,  Mr. —  well,  Mr.  Turner." 

In  the  darkening  restaurant  he  smiled  again. 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  but  after  a  second  or 
two  Mr.  Garbendyke  began  once  more :  — "  You 
know,  Mr.  Turner,  if  I  had  your  means  and  your  — 
your  courage  I  would  have  made  a  fortune  by  now. 
I've  seen  you  do  things  —  we  needn't  go  into  details 
—  which  I've  admired.  And  you  have  a  way  with 
you,  Mr.  Turner.  You  can  do  the  *  legitimate ' 

126 


The  Wcmld-Be  Friends 


right  enough.  No  one  would  suspect.  Just  the 
sort  of  book  Pm  after  myself.  But  does  it  never 
occur  to  you,  Mr.  Turner,  does  it  never  occur  to 
you  that  you're  not  making  a  good  use  of  all  this? 
Have  you  never  said  to  yourself  *  I  need  a  part- 
ner >?" 

Mr.  Turner,  who  had  been  listening  intently,  sud- 
denly began  to  laugh.  But,  strange  to  say,  he 
laughed  inwardly,  making  no  sound.  This  lasted 
for  some  time,  while  the  little  clerk  waited  patiently, 
sipping  his  tea  with  a  demure  and  pleased  expres- 
sion. 

"  All  these  *  evers '  of  yours,"  remarked  Mr. 
Turner  all  at  once,  "  make  me  wish  to  ask  you 
something  —  did  you  ever  hear  of  Caius  Caligula? 
I'll  tell  you  a  story  about  him.  One  day  at  dinner 
he  was  laughing  like  anything  for  no  reason  at  all 
and  when  two  senators  politely  asked  him  the  cause 
he  observed  that  he  was  thinking  that  if  he  were  so 
much  as  to  nod,  their  heads  would  be  off  before  they 
could  turn  round.  That  story  always  appeals  to 
me.  I  really  must  be  a  sort  of  Caligula  myself. 
While  you  were  speaking  just  now  I  was  thinking, 
*  Suppose  I  were  to  call  a  policeman  and  have 
him  arrested  for  blackmail.'  No  wonder  I 
laughed." 

"  Blackmail !  —  my  dear  Mr.  Whitelaw  —  I  beg 
your  pardon  —  Mr.  Turner." 

127 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


The  other's  expression  had  suddenly  become  very 
gloomy. 

"  Yes,  and  I  shall  do  it  still  if  you  don't  take 
care,"  he  muttered. 

"  No,  I  think  not,  I  think  not,  Mr.  Turner. 
Firstly,  because  I  haven't  blackmailed  you,  and  sec- 
ondly —  well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  it  would  be  worse 
for  you  than  for  me.  I  am  not  here  to  make  an 
enemy  of  you.  There's  such  a  thing  as  mutual  bene- 
fit. You  have  the  courage,  the  manner,  yes,  the 
money  too,  but  I  have  something  just  as  important 
—  the  power  of  organisation.  Besides,  Mr.  Turner, 
after  all  it's  not  as  if  you  could  give  your  whole 
time  to  it.  Ah,  that's  the  weak  spot!  To  make 
money  a  man  must  concentrate.  Now,  how  can  you 
be  travelling  about  the  country  and  at  the  same 
time  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Turner's  look  had  been  growing  still  more 
sombre. 

"  I  warn  you,"  he  interrupted  threateningly, 
"  that  you  are  playing  a  game  I  don't  like.  You 
are  evidently  a  scoundrel." 

He  looked  as  if  he  would  have  added  more  had  he 
not  suddenly  remembered  something. 

"  Why  do  you  go  on  calling  me  Whitelaw?  "  he 
finished  uneasily. 

"  Why  ?  —  because  I'm  not  really  sure  what  your 
128 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


name  is.  You  will  forgive  me,  Mr.  Turner,  but  you 
know  it  is  rather  difficult  to  say." 

Mr.  Turner  frowned  impatiently. 

"  Abominable  inuendoes,"  he  snorted.  "  What 
are  you  up  to  ?  " 

The  other  looked  crestfallen. 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  misunderstand  me,"  he  be- 
gan plaintively.  "  My  only  wish  is  to  do  good  to  us 
both.  Of  course  it's  easy  to  blame  me.  I'm  too 
frank.  Every  one  speaks  well  of  you.  If  we  were 
to  go  into  any  of  these  shops  together  and  you  were 
to  say, '  You  see  this  fellow,  he  accuses  me  of  —  what 
shall  I  call  it  — "  imperfect  sense  of  property,"  they 
would  laugh.'  *  Why,  that  scarecrow,'  they  would 
reply,  *  we  know  all  about  him  —  an  out-of-work 
tout!  Don't  you  bother,  sir.'  Can't  I  hear  them! 
Good  gracious,  they'd  probably  think  it  was  /  who 
had  been  taking  their  books.  There,  how  stupid  of 
me,  I've  let  it  out !  Well,  well !  And  suppose  in  my 
desperation  I  were  to  answer,  '  Will  the  gentleman 
give  you  his  address  and  tell  you  what  his  employ- 
ment is,'  and  they  were  to  press  you,  you  would  clear 
yourself  at  once.  *  I  have  a  permanent  room  at 

the Club '  (I'll  just  whisper  the  name  in  your 

ear)  *  and  I'm  employed  by , , ,'  (let 

me  just  whisper  again) — 'I  travel  for  them!'  I 
would  look  like  a  fool,  wouldn't  I  ?  It  would  be  a  case 

129 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


for  a  policeman  all  right.  But  suppose,  just  as  he 
was  coining,  I  were  to  make  one  final  appeal  like  this, 
'  Will  you  go  with  this  gentleman  to  such  and  such 
an  address  in  Chelsea?  '  (he  wrote  something  on  a 
scrap  of  paper  and  held  it  for  a  moment  close  to  Mr. 
Turner's  face)  '  and  ask  there  what  his  name  is,  and 
will  you  examine  his  flat  and  tell  me!  .  .  .'  eh,  Mr. 
Turner,  suppose  I  were  to  do  that?" 

Mr.  Turner  got  up  slowly  from  his  seat.  His  face 
was  white  and  trembling  with  passion  —  or  fear. 

"  Keep  quiet ! "  he  whispered ;  "  do  you  want  to 
ruin  us  both?  " 

"  No,  I  want  to  make  both  our  fortunes." 

The  little  clerk  spoke  very  distinctly  and  more 
authoritatively  than  he  had  done  before. 

"  I  want  to  make  both  our  fortunes,  I  say.  I'm 
poor  —  I  haven't  got  a  stiver.  I  slept  on  the  Em- 
bankment last  night.  What  do  you  think  I  have 
to  lose?  I'm  not  afraid  of  prison.  I'm  perfectly 
reckless.  You  can  understand  what  that  means. 
But  for  you  —  well,  make  your  choice." 

He  had  thrown  off  all  his  servility. 

"  Make  your  choice,"  he  repeated  after  a  silence, 
"  and  hurry  up." 

Mr.  Turner  remained  standing,  looking  formid- 
ably at  the  clerk.  At  this  second  challenge  he  sud- 
denly sat  down. 

**  Very  good,"  he  said  deliberately. 
130 


The  Would-Be  Friend* 


The  clerk  cocked  an  eye  at  him. 

"  What  shall  we  call  it  —  Whitelaw  and  Garben- 
dyke? "  he  sniggered,  squirming  in  his  seat  and 
speaking  in  his  old  voice.  "  Shall  we  christen  it 
that?  " 

"  Oh,  you  cunning  devil !  " 

"  I'll  make  both  our  fortunes,  Mr.  Turner,  never 
you  fear.  I  think  I  ought  to  start  at  once,  don't 
you?" 

There  was  a  veiled  note  in  this  last  sentence. 

"  Oh,  you  cunning  devil !  "  said  Mr.  Turner  again. 

Garbendyke  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"  You  musn't  take  on  like  this,  Mr.  Turner,  sir," 
he  murmured,  "  I  assure  you  that  your  interests 
won't  suffer.  Come,  I'll  be  honest  with  you.  I  ad- 
mit that  I'm  thinking  of  number  one,  but  you  see 
I  can't  help  number  one  without  helping  number 
two.  It  is  so,  isn't  it?  But  seriously,  now,  when 
do  you  think  I  should  start?  " 

Mr.  Turner  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  have  an 
apoplectic  fit. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  accompany  me  when  I  leave 
this  shop?  "  he  asked  in  a  savage  undertone. 

Garbendyke  watched  him  intently. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  after  a  moment's  delay. 
"  You  always  spend  the  week-ends  there.  What 
could  be  better?  " 

Mr.  Turner's  lips  were  tightly  pressed  together. 
181 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


He  seemed  to  be  restraining  himself  by  a  great  effort. 

"  Listen  you  —  what  do  you  call  yourself?  —  Gar- 
bendye,"  he  said  in  a  raised  voice,  "  I  warn  you  that 
you  won't  come  well  out  of  this." 

"  Be  careful  what  you  say,  Mr.  Turner.  Lower 
your  voice.  There's  a  girl  just  behind  us  bringing 
the  bill." 

Mr.  Garbendyke  spoke  softly  but  his  raised  hand 
trembled  a  little.  It  was  impossible  to  see  his  face 
in  the  dusk  of  the  shop,  but  the  very  sound  of  his 
voice,  so  gentle  and  menacing,  brought  Mr.  Turner 
to  his  senses. 

"  Well,  so  be  it,"  he  said  briefly,  as  he  rose. 

They  went  out  together  into  the  street. 

They  had  not  walked  a  hundred  yards  when  Mr. 
Turner  hailed  a  cab  and,  bundling  in  Garbendyke 
before  him,  gave  the  driver  an  address  in  Chelsea. 

"  Now,  Garbendyke,"  he  began  resolutely,  making 
his  voice  heard  above  the  jolt  of  the  cab,  "  let  us 
come  to  a  clear  understanding.  This,  of  course,  is 
an  ordinary  case  of  blackmail.  Yes,  it  is  —  don't 
contradict!  You  think  you  can  squeeze  me  and  I 
daresay  you're  chuckling  at  your  success.  All  right 
—  chuckle  away.  I'm  not  grudging  it  you.  Only 
remember  that  there's  always  a  point  where  the  worm 
turns.  However,  that'll  do  for  that.  I  begin  to 
think  there  may  be  something  in  what  you  say.  You 
did  hit  on  the  weak  spots  of  my  business.  A  man 

132 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


who  can  do  that  can  do  more.  That's  how  I  see  it. 
At  any  rate,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance. 
There's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

Mr.  Garbendyke  had  sat  listening  quite  still  with 
a  smile  on  his  face. 

"  You  will  not  regret  it,  Mr.  Turner,"  he  an- 
swered in  a  voice  humble  and  mocking.  "  What  I 
say  is,  let  bygones  be  bygones.  We're  here  to  work 
together  for  each  other's  advantage.  Only  don't 
give  way  to  anger,  sir.  It's  very  unjustifiable  be- 
tween friends." 

He  ended  with  a  disagreeable  laugh. 

Mr.  Turner  spoke  with  difficulty  as  he  replied, 
"  You'd  better  do  well  by  me,  by  gum !  " 

"  There,  there,  Mr.  Whitelaw  —  how  stupid  of 
me  —  Mr.  Turner,  I  mean,  don't  take  on  so.  I'm 
not  posing  as  a  disinterested  person.  I  help  myself 
by  helping  you.  You  know  that  yourself,  don't  you  ? 
Of  course,  you  do.  Please  be  reasonable." 

Mr.  Turner  thought  for  a  minute.  His  ideas  were 
probably  becoming  more  formed. 

"  Tell  me  exactly  what  you  propose?  "  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"  Now  we're  getting  to  the  point.  I  propose,  Mr. 
Turner,  to  organise  your  business  by  giving  my 
whole  time  to  it.  I'm  not  bringing  references  "  (he 
giggled) ,  "  but  one  week  will  show  you  what  I  can 
do.  One  short  week,  Mr.  Turner.  While  you're  at 

133 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


your  office  or  in  the  country  or  at  your  club,  I'll 
be  slaving  away  in  Chelsea.  Your  business  is  the 
kind  that  can  be  enormously  developed.  And  along 
lines  of  which  every  one  would  approve  too  "  (he 
giggled  again)  — "  safe  lines.  Still,  I  won't  speak 
too  much  about  that.  But  what  happens  as  things 
are?  You're  there  over  week-ends  and,  say,  a  couple 
of  nights  during  the  week  for  a  few  hours.  What 
can  you  expect?  The  business  stagnates  —  it  must. 
But  I'll  be  on  the  spot  all  the  time  —  examining 
catalogues,  making  out  lists,  organising,  enlarging. 
Mr.  Turner,  you  don't  begin  to  guess  the  money 
that's  slipping  through  your  fingers." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  live  there?  "  asked  the  other 
in  a  strangled  voice. 

"Live  there?  —  of  course!  Where  else  should  I 
live?  You  wait  till  you  see  your  receipts  going  up. 
Besides,  don't  you  need  some  one  to  admit  callers  ?  " 

"  My  business  is  American." 

"  Ah,  I  was  wondering  —  I  thought  it  must  be. 
Still,  Americans  do  call  now  and  then,  I  suppose. 
But  that's  not  really  the  point.  What  I  intend  to 
do  is  to  make  the  business.  I  daresay  even  now  it's 
tidy  enough  —  in  fact,  if  I  may  say  so  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  in  a  jocular  tone. 

"No,  you  may  not,"  shouted  Mr.  Turner  all  at  once. 

A  deep  silence  followed  this  outbreak,  which  was 
not  broken  till  they  had  left  the  cab  and  were  climb- 

184 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


ing  a  long,  winding  flight  of  stone  stairs.  Then,  on 
the  point  of  opening  the  door,  Mr.  Turner  whispered 
to  his  companion,  "  Never  call  me  anything  but 
Whitelaw  here." 

It  was  pitch  dark  inside  the  flat. 

"  Just  wait  outside  a  moment  while  I  turn  on  the 
light,"  said  Mr.  Turner  —  or  rather,  Mr.  White- 
law. 

Garbendyke  heard  him  stamping  about  inside  the 
passage  and  suddenly  the  whole  place  was  lit  up.  At 
his  very  feet  lay  a  great  pile  of  unopened  letters. 

"  Come  in  and  I'll  shut  the  door,"  said  Mr.  White- 
law.  "  Three  days'  accumulation,"  he  continued, 
stooping  down  and  gathering  up  his  correspondence 
in  both  hands.  "  I  haven't  been  round  since 
Wednesday.  We'll  take  them  in  here,"  and  he 
nodded  towards  a  door  on  the  left.  Garbendyke 
opened  it  and  switched  on  the  light.  He  entered, 
followed  by  Mr.  Whitelaw.  They  might  have 
stepped  into  the  inner  room  of  a  second-hand  book- 
seller's shop.  Glass  cases,  running  up  to  the  ceil- 
ing, hid  the  walls  on  three  sides.  Mr.  Garbendyke 
gave  them  a  rapid  glance.  Scattered  over  the  floor 
near  the  cases,  scattered  neatly,  with  method,  were 
piles  of  books,  of  portfolios  full  with  prints,  of 
bulky  brown  paper  parcels.  They  made  an  uneven 
rampart  a  couple  of  feet  high,  full  of  lanes  and 
breaches,  to  within  a  short  way  of  a  large  table 

185 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  This  table 
contained  heaps  of  circulars,  wrappers,  postcards, 
writing  paper,  brown  paper,  tissue  paper,  envelopes 
of  every  size,  also  bottles  of  red  and  black  ink,  a 
ball  of  string,  several  small  metal  boxes,  sealing  wax, 
blotting  paper,  etc.,  etc. —  all  very  neat  and  busi- 
ness like.  Over  against  the  window  was  a  bureau  of 
old  oak.  Mr.  Whitelaw,  his  hands  full  of  letters, 
made  his  way  to  the  table. 

"  Come  here,  Garbendyke !  "  he  called  out  over  his 
shoulder  to  the  little  clerk  who  had  remained  stand- 
ing by  the  door,  staring  inquisitively  round  him. 

Mr.  Whitelaw  sat  down  inertly,  letting  his  arm- 
ful of  letters  flow  over  the  table  before  him.  He 
appeared  to  be  sunk  in  gloomy  reflections.  Gar- 
bendyke noiselessly  approached. 

"  Speak,  can't  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Whitelaw  at  last 
in  an  irritable  voice ;  "  what  d'you  think  of  the 
place?  Eh,  haven't  you  a  tongue?" 

"  I'm  delighted  with  it,  Mr. —  Mr.  Whitelaw  — 
most  delighted.'* 

"  Are  you,  indeed?     Very  condescending  of  you !  " 

He  began  moodily  tearing  open  one  letter  after 
another.  Garbendyke  stood  patiently  by,  stealing 
rapid  glances  round  the  room. 

"  Excuse  my  interrupting  you,  Mr.  Whitelaw," 
he  said  presently,  "  but  is  this  where  I'm  to  work?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is.  I  do  everything  at  this  table  —  the 
136 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


whole  damned  business.  I  even  make  up  my  own 
paper  parcels  generally.  But  when  I  need  real 
packing  done  —  wooden  cases  or  anything  of  that 
kind  —  I  get  a  man  in.  I've  got  a  little  room  for 
that  along  the  passage.  He  comes  about  once  a 
week.  His  wife,  too,  now  and  then  to  dust.  But 
I'll  have  to  explain  all  that  later.  Here,  come  and 
look  through  these  letters.  They'll  give  you  an 
idea.  I'm  going  out  to  buy  some  food  —  back  in 
half  an  hour. 

He  got  up  abruptly.  The  little  clerk  edged  his 
way  to  the  chair. 

"  Don't  bear  me  any  malice,  Mr.  Whitelaw,"  he 
murmured.  "  You  won't  regret  this  day,  sir.  I'll 
get  to  work  straight  off." 

The  other  gave  him  a  look  of  hatred  and  contempt 
and  went  out  of  the  room.  At  the  door  he  turned 
and  shouted  insultingly,  "  Just  remember,  by  the 
way,  that  I  have  a  list  of  every  one  of  my  books." 
A  moment  later  the  door  of  the  flat  banged  behind 
him. 

No  sooner  did  he  hear  this  sound  than  Garbendyke 
jumped  up  and  ran  out  to  listen  in  the  passage. 
The  steps  were  retreating  audibly.  He  stood  there, 
smiling  poisonously  at  the  door.  An  ugly  expres- 
sion had  overshadowed  his  pale  and  meagre  face. 

"  Make  him  sorry  he  was  ever  born,"  he  said  dis- 
tinctly. "  His  books !  —  bah,  the  fraud ! " 

137 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


But  he  did  not  waste  time  in  melodramatic  asides. 
He  ran  quickly  from  room  to  room  of  the  flat,  taking 
in  all  the  contents  with  marvellous  rapidity.  He 
found  the  tiny  packing-den  of  which  Whitelaw  had 
spoken,  two  bedrooms  facing  each  other  across  the 
passage,  a  small  dining-room,  a  kitchen,  and  a  room 
with  a  locked  door.  This  last  appeared  to  fascinate 
Garbendyke.  He  returned  to  it  several  times,  tried 
the  lock  softly,  and  even  attempted  to  peep  through 
the  key-hole.  It  was  all  in  vain.  He  could  do 
nothing  with  it.  Then,  standing  indecisively  in  the 
passage,  he  recalled  to  mind  the  bureau  in  the  book' 
room  and  he  ran  back  there  to  see  if  its  drawers 
would  open.  Almost  to  his  chagrin  they  were  un- 
locked. They  contained  only  great  supplies  of  sta- 
tionery, bundles  of  receipts,  of  booksellers'  cata- 
logues, of  collectors'  addresses  in  America,  and  of 
letters.  He  would  have  looked  more  closely  at  the 
letters  had  he  not  heard  steps  on  the  stairs.  He 
quickly  shut  the  draws,  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  be- 
gan studying  the  mail  Whitelaw  had  left  with  him. 

When  Mr.  Whitelaw  entered  his  flat  he  went 
straight  into  the  kitchen  with  several  parcels  he  had 
brought  back  with  him.  Presently  a  smell  of  frying 
began  to  pervade  the  place.  Garbendyke,  who  had 
finished  opening,  reading,  and  docketing  the  letters 
and  who  was  now  carefully  examining  the  contents 
of  the  bookcases,  sniffed  appreciatively.  He  had 

138 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


eaten  very  little  for  the  last  two  weeks.  He  heard 
Mr.  Whitelaw  walking  to  and  fro  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  dining-room,  the  jingling  sound  of  knives 
and  forks,  hi  fact  all  the  usual  preparations 
for  supper.  Hunger  grew  upon  him  as  he  waited. 
He  thought  of  his  last  night's  meal  of  dry  crust. 
His  cunning  face  wore  a  fatigued  and  wolfish  expres- 
sion. He  gazed  languidly  round  the  room,  his  whole 
mind  centred  on  the  smell  of  frying  sausages.  All 
at  once  he  slipped  out  into  the  passage  and  along 
to  the  kitchen.  Mr.  Whitelaw  was  just  removing 
the  sausages  from  the  frying  pan  into  a  dish.  He 
looked  up  at  the  intruder  in  surprise. 

"  Who  asked  you  in  here?  "  he  said. 

"  Me  —  oh,  nobody,  Mr.  Whitelaw.  I  thought 
perhaps  I  could  help  you.  I'm  a  good  cook.  Are 
we  to  have  supper  now?  " 

He  could  not  help  putting  a  certain  eagerness 
into  this  last  sentence. 

"  Looks  like  it,  don't  it?  "  responded  Mr.  White- 
law.  "  Stand  aside,  please !  " 

He  swept  past  him  with  the  steaming  plate. 

A  minute  later  Mr.  Garbendyke  was  cramming 
sausages  into  his  mouth  with  indecent  haste.  Mr. 
Whitelaw,  eating  more  slowly,  watched  him  with  an 
ironical  smile.  He  seemed  pleased  for  some  reason 
or  other  —  as  though  he  had  found  the  chink  in  an 
adversary's  armour.  The  more  Garbendyke  ate,  the 

139 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


more  he  watched  him  and  the  more  jolly  he  grew. 
He  urged  him  on  to  drink  several  large  cups  of 
cocoa,  to  eat  great  hunks  of  bread  and  butter  and 
some  corned  beef  from  a  tin.  Meanwhile  he  got  out 
a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  lit  his  pipe. 

At  length  he  saw  that  the  other  had  really  fin- 
ished. He  moved  in  his  chair. 

"  Now,  suppose  we  talk  business,"  he  said  in  a 
hearty  and  unnecessarily  loud  voice.  Mr.  Garben- 
dyke  nodded  thoughtfully,  brushing  the  crumbs  from 
his  mouth. 

"  Yes,  suppose  we  talk  business  now,"  repeated 
Mr.  Whitelaw,  pouring  out  a  glass  of  whiskey  for 
Garbendyke  and  pushing  it  across  the  table. 

Garbendyke,  who  had  fully  recovered  all  his  cau- 
tion, remained  silent  but  again  nodded  assent. 

"  The  truth  is  I've  come  to  your  conclusion.  I 
accept  you  as  a  fact  —  a  fait  accompli,  as  they  say. 
Let  us  work  loyally  together.  And  why  shouldn't 
we?  There's  no  reason  that  I  can  see.  I  drink  to 
your  health,  Garbendyke." 

Garbendyke  smile  politely  and  rather  drily. 
After  Mr.  Whitlaw  had  drunk  he  proceeded  in  a  still 
more  confidential  tone,  "  When  I  leave  here  on  Mon- 
day morning,  Garbendyke,  you  will  be  in  charge. 
Not  a  word.  I  trust  you.  I  agree  with  what  you 
say  about  our  interests  being  mutual.  I've  been 
thinking  it  over.  You  will  live  here  as  my  guest.  I 

140 


The  Would-Be  Friend* 


daresay  you  have  seen  your  bedroom  "  (a  slight  and 
transient  annoyance  came  into  his  voice)  "  well, 
that's  all  right.  You  will  report  to  me  from  time 
to  time.  I  shall  often  be  looking  in.  You  will  save 
me  a  great  deal.  Besides,  with  your  knowledge  and 
so  on  —  Mr.  Garbendyke,  I  do  believe  our  meeting 
has  been  a  fortunate  one  after  all." 

He  paused  for  a  few  seconds,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  and  puffing  smoke  out  in  a  contemplative 
reverie.  Then  he  continued  leisurely,  "  As  for  sal- 
ary, I  propose  to  give  you  £2  a  week." 

".  .  .  and  a  share  in  the  profits,"  added  Mr.  Gar- 
bendyke very  softly. 

Mr.  Whitelaw  did  not  answer  at  once.  A  great 
alteration  had  suddenly  transformed  him. 

"  I  told  you  not  to  go  too  far,"  he  murmured 
finally.  "  There  are  limits  — limits,  do  you  hear?  " 

He  had  closed  his  eyes  and  did  not  see  the  look 
of  hate  and  greed  which  had  come  into  the  face  of 
the  clerk.  When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  sounded 
strangely  forced,  "  You  must  be  reasonable,  Mr. 
Garbendyke." 

The  clerk  was  breathing  quickly  and  nervously. 

"  No  one  wishes  to  be  fairer  than  I  do,"  he  ob- 
served vaguely. 

Mr.  Whitelaw  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"  That's  a  damned  lie,"  he  shouted  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

141 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Mr.  Garbendyke  had  jumped  up  at  the  same  in- 
stant and  stood  looking  unsteadily  at  his  host. 

"  Do  you  want  to  rouse  the  whole  house?  "  he 
snarled. 

Both  of  them  remained  silent  as  though  appalled 
by  the  sudden  clamour  that  had  died  out  so  instan- 
taneously. All  at  once  they  heard  a  door  being 
opened  cautiously  outside  the  flat.  Mr.  Whitelaw 
slipped  from  the  room  with  a  finger  to  his  mouth. 
He  top-toed  down  the  passage;  then  noiselessly  and 
very  swiftly  he  flung  open  his  outer  door.  It  was 
exactly  as  he  had  expected.  In  the  doorway  op- 
posite a  little  old  man  was  leaning  forward  in  an 
attitude  of  strained  attention.  On  catching  sight 
of  Mr.  Whitelaw  he  smiled  timorously  and  backed  into 
his  own  flat.  Mr.  Whitelaw  thoughtfully  retraced 
his  steps. 

He  found  Garbendyke  just  where  he  had  left 
him. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  he  remarked,  "  nothing  at  all." 
Then,  changing  his  tone,  he  continued,  "  As  to  the 
other  thing  —  I  apologise.  I  lost  my  temper. 
What  was  it  you  were  saying?  —  you  want  a  share 
in  the  profits?  Make  a  business,  and  I  shan't  com- 
plain. Only  be  reasonable  and  don't  irritate  me. 
I'm  a  hasty  man  —  very  hasty  and  violent,"  he  con- 
cluded in  a  gloomy  undertone. 

Garbendyke  still  seemed  to  expect  a  fresh  out- 
142 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


break.  He  looked  sourly  at  Mr.  Whitelaw  and  was 
inclined  to  be  on  the  offensive.  Whitelaw,  on  the 
other  hand,  seemed  anxious  to  make  amends.  He 
kept  pressing  the  little  clerk  to  drink  more  and  more. 
Indeed,  he  was  becoming  quite  affable  again.  He 
began  to  explain  the  ramifications  of  his  business  — 
his  legitimate  business  —  with  much  detail  and  with 
great  gusto.  He  outlined  new  schemes,  suggested 
where  Mr.  Garbendyke  would  be  of  real  service, 
showed  him  exactly  where  he,  Mr.  Whitelaw,  failed, 
and  where  he,  Mr.  Garbendyke,  was  to  succeed.  He 
was  of  opinion  that  there  was  really  a  big  thing  to 
be  made  out  of  it.  Look  how  huge  America  was,  and 
then,  too,  Australia  was  coming  along,  and  Canada 
— "  as  long  as  we  keep  far  enough  from  England," 
he  observed,  laughing  discreetly  and  knowingly. 
"  Eh,  Mr.  Garbendyke  ?  Well,  you  saw  the  letters  I 
got  to-day.  There's  a  business  here  all  right." 

Mi-.  Garbendyke  began  to  thaw  a  little  though 
still  keeping  himself  very  much  on  the  alert.  He 
nodded  several  times. 

"  You  are  right,  Mr.  Garbendyke,"  continued  the 
other  deliberately.  "You  and  I  together — well, 
you  know  the  motto.  There  is  a  motto,  isn't  there? 
However,  as  I  was  saying,  two's  strength  where  one's 
weakness.  You  follow  me?  " 

Again  Mr.  Garbendyke  nodded. 

"  Oh,  I  follow  you,  Mr.  Whitelaw,"  he  murmured. 
143 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  It's  what  I've  thought  all  along.  I  mean  to  jus- 
tify myself,  sir." 

"  You  shall,  you  shall  —  I'm  sure  of  it." 

Mr.  Whitelaw  got  up  fussily  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down. 

"  Well,  Garbendyke,  what  about  turning  in  ?  "  he 
said  all  at  once.  "  Help  me  to  clear  away  and  then 
-bed.  Eh?" 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Whitelaw." 

Twenty  minutes  later  Garbendyke  had  retired  to 
his  own  room. 

He  began  to  undress  slowly.  Several  things  about 
Mr.  Whitelaw  and  his  flat  still  puzzled  him.  He 
heard  him  stamping  about  in  the  room  opposite  and 
he  could  well  imagine  his  expression  of  annoyance 
and  impotent  rage.  "  His  books,  indeed !  "  he  mut- 
tered contemptuously,  continuing  in  his  own  mind 
the  scene  in  the  library.  "  I'll  soon  show  him 
whether  I'm  dog  or  not,"  he  added  in  a  whisper, 
after  listening  for  another  minute.  But  feeling  very 
tired  he  presently  slipped  into  his  sheetless  bed,  wear- 
ing his  dirty  shirt.  The  noise  still  went  on  in  the 
other  room  but  all  at  once  he  heard  Mr.  Whitelaw 
come  out  and  next  moment  knock  at  his  own  door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  shouted,  jumping  up  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Oh,  I  just  looked  in  to  say,"  remarked  Mr. 
Whitelaw  in  the  doorway,  "  that  I  sometimes  lie  in 


The  Wmtld-Be  Friends 


bed  rather  late  on  Sunday.  Suppose  you  cook  the 
breakfast  to-morrow?  You  say  you're  a  good  cook. 
They'll  leave  a  can  of  milk  outside  the  door.  See 
what  you  can  do,  at  any  rate.  You'll  find  bacon  and 
so  on  in  the  kitchen.  And,  by  the  bye,  be  as  quiet 
as  you  can.  Very  inquisitive  lot  in  these  flats,  al- 
ways bothering  about  other  people's  affairs."  He 
cleared  his  throat  as  though  at  a  painful  recollection. 
*'  As  I  say,  it's  best  to  keep  oneself  to  oneself.  Well, 
good-night  again." 

"  That'll  be  all  right,"  answered  Garbendyke  from 
his  bed ;  "  good-night,  Mr.  Tur  —  Mr.  Whitelaw." 

This  interruption  had  the  effect  of  completely 
driving  away  Garbendyke's  sleepiness.  For  some 
reason  or  other  he  now  felt  particularly  alert  and 
wakeful.  He  heard  Mr.  Whitelaw  go  back  to  his 
room  and  then  a  long  time  after  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  emerged  again,  but  this  time  very  softly  and 
cautiously.  Garbendyke  got  carefully  out  of  bed 
and  put  his  ear  to  the  door.  At  the  other  end  of  the 
passage  a  key  was  being  inserted  into  a  lock.  This 
sound  did  not  really  surprise  him  because,  oddly 
enough,  he  had  been  expecting  something  of  the  kind. 
He  felt  greatly  excited.  He  realised  instantly  that 
Mr.  Whitelaw  was  about  to  enter  the  locked  room. 
But  what  to  do  now?  He  looked  about  him  in  the 
dark,  trying  to  formulate  some  plan.  He  was  fright- 
ened lest  a  board  should  creak  or  lest  he  should  up- 

145 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


set  something.  After  a  minute's  thought  he  silently 
opened  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  passage  in 
his  shirt  and  bare  feet.  At  the  further  end  a  light 
was  shining  into  it.  Keeping  close  to  the  wall  and 
stepping  warily  as  a  cat,  Garbendyke  made  his  way 
towards  this  light.  Like  many  calculating  people 
he  had  moments  of  insane  rashness.  He  felt  that  if 
he  were  discovered  he  might  be  the  victim  of  violence, 
but  then  if  he  were  not  discovered  .  .  .  Vistas  of 
blackmail  and  revenge  passed  rapidly  before  his  mind. 
And  so,  step  by  step,  he  went  noiselessly  forward. 

And  this  is  what  he  saw  at  length.  He  saw  his 
would-be  friend  sitting  in  a  tiny  room  before  a  little 
table  propped  up  on  which  was  a  glorious  illuminated 
Horae.  He  seemed  to  be  examining  with  a  magni- 
fying glass  a  picture  of  the  Holy  Child  lying  on 
His  back  in  a  wide  field  and  gazing  up  into  a  sky  of 
deep  blue  spangled  with  golden  stars.  The  room 
was  so  small  that  the  table,  chair,  and  a  large  safe 
were  almost  its  only  furniture.  A  green  shaded 
lamp  cast  down  a  brilliant  glare  upon  the  open  page 
and  left  the  remainder  of  the  room  in  shadow.  Mr. 
Whitelaw  seemed  lost  in  admiration  or  in  the  sheer 
luxury  of  possession.  His  glass  slowly  traversed 
the  surface  of  the  page  as  he  leant  adoringly  towards 
the  figure  of  the  Holy  Child. 

No  sooner  had  Garbendyke  seen  this  book  than  an 
expression  of  incredulous  amazement  crossed  his  face. 

146 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


It  was  followed  by  a  smile  of  the  most  complete 
understanding.  (He  was  one  of  these  horrid  little 
men  who  seemed  to  know  about  everything.)  Mr. 
Whitelaw  had  not  stirred  in  the  very  least  but  Gar- 
bendyke  appeared  to  have  satisfied  his  curiosity. 
Stepping  into  the  shadow  of  the  wall  he  glided  back 
to  his  own  room  and  crept  once  more  into  bed.  It 
was  not  until  he  had  heard  Mr.  Whitelaw  return, 
fully  an  hour  later,  that  he  allowed  himself  to  think 
of  sleep. 

The  next  morning  he  was  up  betimes.  Mr.  White- 
law's  door  was  shut  and  a  sound  of  snoring  showed 
that  he  was  still  asleep.  The  little  clerk  quickly 
dressed  himself  and  then  began  walking  softly  about 
the  flat  peeping  into  every  corner.  He  could  dis- 
cover nothing  new.  After  a  time  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  ought  to  begin  making  preparations  for 
breakfast,  and  he  opened  the  outer  door  so  that  he 
could  take  in  the  can  of  milk.  He  was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  see  in  the  doorway  opposite  a  little  old 
man  who  gave  every  appearance  of  having  been 
listening  to  his  movements.  He  was  one  of  these 
small,  insignificant,  withered  old  men  who  look  like 
retired  tradesmen  in  a  small  way  and  who  always 
appear  extremely  nervous  and  fretful.  No  sooner 
did  Garbendyke  cast  eyes  on  him  than  he  reached 
the  noise  of  last  night  which  had  made  Mr.  White- 
law  run  so  hastily  to  the  door  (it  was  a  thing  that 

147 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


had  given  him  some  thought  since)  and  he  associ- 
ated this  old  man  with  the  former  interruption.  The 
old  man,  meanwhile,  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  intense 
curiosity,  annoyance,  and  indecision.  He  half  re- 
treated into  his  flat  and  then  came  out  again  like  a 
frightened  rabbit.  He  began  to  address  Garben- 
dyke  at  once :  — 

"  Please  note  that  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  stand 
here  if  I  want  to,"  he  remarked  in  a  jerky  voice; 
"  I  decline  to  be  tyrannised  over  by  Mr.  Whitelaw 
or  any  of  his  friends.  Do  you  hear  that,  young 
man?  Definitely  decline,  I  say." 

"  I  was  only  just  getting  the  milk,"  replied  Gar- 
bendyke  mildly,  pointing  down  at  the  can. 

This  observation  seemed  to  mollify  the  old  man's 
annoyance  and  to  reawaken  his  curiosity. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  replied.  "  Mr. 
Whitelaw  does  not  treat  me  fairly.  But  I  won't  be 
tyrannised  over.  No,  I  won't.  And  why  shouldn't 
I  be  inquisitive  if  I  want  to  be?  Can  you  tell  me 
that,  young  man?  Don't  you  suppose  I  ask  myself 
what  all  the  parcels  and  cases  are  that  keep  going 
up  and  down  ?  I'm  a  person  that  likes  to  know  about 
my  neighbours.  Fine  squabble  you  had  last  night, 
and  generally  so  quiet  as  he  is.  If  it  wasn't  that 
I'm  a  cautious  man  I'd  have  rapped  on  his  door. 
But  I  don't  like  the  way  he  comes  running  out  when- 
ever he  hears  me  moving.  No,  I  don't  like  it." 

148 


The  Wmtld-Ee  Friends 


He  pouted  like  an  old  man  in  his  dotage. 

"And  who  are  you?"  he  continued  querulously: 
"  I  heard  you  walking  about.  '  Why  he  may  have 
murdered  him,'  I  thought.  I  don't  like  it  at  all." 

Garbendyke  laughed.  He  had  a  notion  that  he 
might  get  some  information  here. 

"Don't  like  it?"  he  echoed  him  in  an  astonished 
voice ;  "  What  do  you  mean  exactly  ?  —  what  is  it 
you  don't  like?  " 

The  little  old  man  blinked  his  eyes  and  took  a 
cautious  step  nearer. 

"  I  don't  like  all  this  mystery,"  he  whispered,  and 
then,  as  though  recalling  some  event,  he  added 
angrily,  "  And  mind  you,  you  can  tell  Mr.  Whitelaw 
from  me  that  I  won't  be  tyrannised  over." 

Mr.  Garbendyke  looked  very  wise. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  everything  you  can,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  you  may  be  sure  I'll  see  that 
it's  all  right." 

But  at  these  comforting  and,  as  it  were,  confi- 
dential words,  an  expression  of  vague  alarm  came 
into  the  old  man's  face.  He  backed  onto  his  own 
door  mat. 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  to  be  mistrusted,"  he  mumbled, 
concealing,  so  it  seemed  to  Garbendyke,  some  knowl- 
edge or  other  under  an  air  of  general  grievance,  and 
accentuating,  as  he  spoke,  his  tone  of  feeble  and 
petulant  old  age. 

149 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Garbendyke's  face  assumed  an  expression  of  the 
most  lively  sympathy.  He  had  no  wish  to  frighten 
the  old  man  away. 

"  Now  that  I've  come,"  he  murmured,  "  I  think 
you'll  find  .  .  ." 

"  All  very  well,  but  who  are  you?  "  said  the  other 
quickly ;  "  I've  asked  you  that  already." 

"  Oh,  I'm  looking  into  things  in  general.  Mr. 
Whitelaw  wanted  my  help.  I'm  a  business  man,  you 
know  —  a  jack-of-all-trades,  so  to  speak." 

"  Hum !  "  said  the  old  man  rudely,  "  you  look  to 
me  as  if  you  hadn't  been  doing  much  business  lately. 
I  don't  like  it,  I  tell  you.  I'm  a  man  who  won't  be 
tyrannised  over.  Don't  you  forget  that,  young 
man." 

"  No,  don't  go  in,"  said  Garbendyke  hastily,  seeing 
that  the  old  man  was  about  to  shut  the  door  in  his 
face.  "  I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean  — 
you  fancy  there's  something  —  something  queer 
going  on  in  there"  (he  jerked  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder) . 

He  had  to  be  careful  not  to  endanger  his  position 
and  yet  he  was  full  of  curiosity. 

"  Good  gracious  me,  don't  you  put  words  into  my 
mouth,"  said  the  other  in  a  frightened  voice.  And 
suddenly  he  added  slyly,  "  What  is  one  to  think  if 
one  hears  high  words  —  one  can  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether, I  suppose." 

150 


The  Wvuld-Be  Friends 


Garbendyke  had  only  time  to  ejaculate,  "  I  can 
explain  everything  to  you,"  when  the  little  old  man 
shut  the  door  most  unceremoniously  in  his  face. 

Garbendyke  stood  there  for  fully  a  minute  quite 
motionless,  then,  taking  up  the  can  of  milk,  he  went 
stealthily  back  into  the  flat.  Whitelaw  was  still 
asleep  (his  snoring  sounded  louder  than  ever)  and 
Garbendyke  made  straight  for  the  kitchen  and  began 
to  prepare  breakfast.  Finally,  when  this  was  ready 
and  he  had  spread  the  table,  he  knocked  boldly  on 
Mr.  Whitelaw's  door  and  entered. 

"  Breakfast  is  ready,  Mr.  Whitelaw,"  he  began  in 
a  cheeful  voice,  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  come 
and  have  it  in  your  dressing-gown.  Everything's 
nice  and  hot." 

Mr.  Whitelaw  stared  moodily  at  him  from  his  bed. 

"  I  hope  it's  cooked  properly,"  he  answered. 
"  Not  that  I  feel  particularly  hungry  —  however, 
thanks.  I'll  be  with  you  at  once." 

Mr.  Garbendyke  went  into  the  dining-room  and 
immediately  afterwards  was  joined  by  his  host.  Mr. 
Whitelaw  had  hastily  shoved  on  a  pair  of  old  slip- 
pers and  came  out  like  that  in  his  pink  pajamas, 
with  his  hair  all  tousled  and  the  bristles  on  his  un- 
shaved  face  giving  him  a  soiled  appearance.  He 
huddled  himself  up  in  his  chair  and  began  to  eat  his 
breakfast  without  a  word,  yawning  and  scratching 
himself  from  time  to  time.  But  after  he  had  finished 

151 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


it  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  he  had  better  make 
himself  pleasant  to  his  guest. 

"  Capital,"  he  said  at  last,  "  a  capital  breakfast ! 
You've  done  well,  Garbendyke.  I'm  apt  to  be  a  bit 
grumpy  on  Sunday  mornings.  You  musn't  mind 
that." 

"  Of  course  not,  sir.  You're  tired  naturally.  I 
daresay  you  have  to  work  late  of  a  Saturday  night  ?  " 

He  smiled  as  innocuously  as  he  could. 

"  Depends,"  said  Mr.  Whitelaw  laconically. 

Mr.  Garbendyke  smiled  still  more  gaily. 

"  I  say,  Mr.  Whitelaw,"  he  remarked  all  at  once, 
"  do  you  ever  attend  the  big  book  sales  ?  " 

"  No,  never." 

"  Oh,  I  see." 

He  nodded  several  times  as  though  he  had  just 
made  a  remarkable  discovery. 

"  Remember,  Garbendyke,  I  don't  like  inuendoes," 
said  the  other  slowly. 

Mr.  Garbendyke's  expression  suddenly  became 
quite  solemn. 

"  I  assure  you  you  are  misunderstanding  me,"  he 
replied.  "  It  only  struck  me  that  we  might  de- 
velop that  side.  I  wish  you  hadn't  such  ideas  about 
me,  Mr.  Whitelaw." 

He  looked  slightly  crestfallen  and  aggrieved.  But 
Mr.  Whitelaw  did  not  seem  altogether  satisfied.  He 
got  up  and  left  the  table. 

152 


The  W&uld-Be  Friends 


A  few  minutes  later  when  Garbendyke  passed  his 
door  on  the  way  to  the  kitchen  he  heard  him  moving 
inside  his  room.  He  was  dressing. 

Mr.  Garbendyke  spent  almost  an  hour  cleaning 
up.  He  felt  in  a  contented  mood  and  whistled  sev- 
eral popular  tunes  in  a  subdued  key.  After  a  time 
he  heard  Mr.  Whitelaw  walk  down  the  passage  and 
go  into  his  library.  Presently  he  followed  him  there. 
He  found  him  sitting  at  his  table.  He  was  exam- 
ining a  bundle  of  little  books  that  he  had  just  taken 
out  of  a  parcel.  He  was  working  without  zest,  how- 
ever, in  a  perfunctory,  ruminating  manner.  The 
sight  of  Garbendyke  appeared  to  awaken  some  un- 
pleasant idea.  He  stared  loweringly  at  him  for  an 
instant  and  then  said :  — 

"  Suppose  you  help  me  to  look  over  these  books." 

Garbendyke  willingly  assented.  Probably  he  had 
a  wish  to  impress  Mr.  Whitelaw  favourably  with  his 
own  knowledge.  He  began  to  dissertate  upon  the 
volumes  that  the  other  handed  up  to  him,  one  at  a 
time.  He  revealed  that  precise  "  inside  "  informa- 
tion so  dear  to  the  expert's  heart.  Mr.  Whitelaw 
was  obviously  impressed. 

"  Come,  this  is  not  so  bad,"  he  said  at  length. 

Garbendyke  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  always  said  I  should  be  useful  to  you,"  he 
murmured. 

"  And  so  you  will  be,"  answered  Mr.  Whitelaw 
155 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


heartily.  "  Let  us  both  be  reasonable  in  this  matter 
and  we'll  make  a  big  success  of  it."  Then  he  added 
suddenly,  in  a  rather  uneasy  tone.  "  By  the  way, 
what's  this  you  say  about  attending  the  auctions?  " 

"  Have  you  never  attended  auctions  ?  "  said  Gar- 
bendyke  in  a  singular  voice. 

Whitelaw,  glancing  up  quickly,  seemed  to  see  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  on  the  white  face  of  his  new  as- 
sistant. He  did  not  answer  immediately  because  he 
experienced  all  at  once  the  sensation  of  standing 
upon  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  He  leant  forward  with 
his  head  resting  upon  his  outspread  hands.  A  deep 
and  ominous  silence  filled  the  room. 

"  That's  the  second  time  you've  asked  me  that 
question,"  he  muttered  at  last. 

Garbendyke  did  not  move  but  he  gradually  became 
even  paler  than  before. 

"  Perhaps  your  memory  is  not  very  good,"  he 
answered  slowly. 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  when 
Whitelaw  leapt  to  his  feet,  overturning  in  his  excite- 
ment his  chair,  which  fell  with  a  loud  clatter  upon  a 
bundle  of  piled-up  books.  His  face  was  fearfully  in- 
flamed with  ungovernable  rage.  But  he  did  not  utter 
the  shout  that  seemed  ready  to  issue  from  his  lips 
because,  in  the  momentary  pause  following  the  noise, 
there  was  heard  again  the  rapid  opening  of  their 
neighbour's  door  and  his  abrupt,  inquisitive  steps  on 

154. 


The  Wauld-Be  Friends 


the  landing.  Whitelaw  made  one  dash  for  the  en- 
trance and  darted  out,  leaving  Garbendyke  all  alone. 
The  little  clerk  tried  to  smile  but  it  was  broken  by 
a  strange  shiver  that  ran  through  his  body.  A  feel- 
ing of  actual  sickness  caused  him  to  pass  his  hands 
across  his  eyes.  It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  re- 
main standing  upright.  After  a  time  he  became  as; 
tonished  at  the  quietness  outside  and  went  cautiously 
to  the  door  to  listen  as  best  he  could.  He  did  not 
dare  to  go  further  because  he  was  sure  that  Mr. 
Whitelaw  would  burst  into  the  flat  at  any  instant. 
He  could  hear  nothing  at  all,  no  raised  voices,  no 
steps  —  nothing.  He  was  emboldened  to  creep  to  the 
outer  door  and  put  his  ear  to  the  key-hole.  Two 
people  were  whispering  on  the  landing.  He  could 
not  make  out  what  they  were  saying  but  he  was  sud- 
denly overcome  with  panic  and  ran  up  the  passage 
into  his  bedroom  and  bolted  himself  in. 

He  tried  to  remember  what  it  was  he  had  said  to 
the  old  man  ("He'll  invent  something  for  certain," 
he  thought),  but  felt  unable  to  recall  things  clearly. 
He  was  trembling  very  much  and  had  to  sit  down  on 
his  bed.  The  look  on  Mr.  Whitelaw's  face  still 
haunted  his  thoughts. 

After  what  seemed  to  him  a  long  interval  he  heard 
Mr.  Whitelaw  come  back  quietly  into  the  flat  and  go 
into  his  room  and  then  presently  into  his  library.  A 
look  of  hatred,  fear,  and  avarice  enlivened  for  an  in- 

155 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


stant  the  expression  of  sombre  gloom  that  had  settled 
upon  Garbendyke's  face. 

"  He  daren't  touch  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  but 
I'll  touch  him  all  right." 

At  this  feeble  joke  he  grinned  devilishly. 

"  I'll  touch  him  all  right,"  he  repeated  — "  a  clear 
thousand  and  out  I  go.  Too  much  temper  for 
me." 

He  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  stroking 
his  chin  and  blinking  in  the  sunlight. 

"  A  thousand  pounds,"  he  murmured  softly. 
"  Does  he  guess,  I  wonder  —  curse  him !  " 

His  cockney  cheek  was  beginning  to  conquer  the 
craven  fear  of  his  heart.  He  felt  extremely  resent- 
ful. Who  was  Whitelaw  to  give  himself  such  airs? 
A  thief  —  an  ordinary  low  thief !  Blackguard ! 
Well,  he  would  show  him ! 

He  fumed  up  and  down  his  tiny  room,  stamping 
on  the  floor.  Best  show  that  brute  at  once  who  was 
master  here!  After  a  few  minutes  of  this  he  noisily 
opened  the  door  and  marched  down  the  passage.  He 
was  slightly  disconcerted  at  the  dead  silence  that  was 
all  the  greeting  his  determined  attitude  aroused. 
The  library  door  was  shut.  He  was  about  to  fling 
it  open,  but  on  second  thoughts  he  marched  back, 
this  time  to  the  kitchen.  It  struck  him  that  it  would 
be  a  good  idea  to  set  about  preparing  dinner  as 
though  nothing  had  happened.  Mr.  Whitelaw  had 

156 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


bought  some  steak  on  the  previous  evening  and  there 
was  a  sack  of  potatoes  in  the  corner.  Garbendyke 
got  to  work  at  once.  He  laid  the  table  again  and 
he  cooked  the  dinner.  Then  in  a  loud,  cheerful  voice 
he  called  on  Mr.  Whitelaw  to  come  along  to  the 
dining-room  and  have  something,  but  Mr.  Whitelaw 
did  not  respond  though  he  must  have  heard  because 
it  was  quite  evident  to  Garbendyke  that  he  was 
walking  about  his  room.  The  little  clerk  did  not 
repeat  the  invitation.  The  silence  of  the  older  man 
filled  him  with  fury.  He  would  like  to  have 
shouted  through  the  key-hole,  "  Come  out  of  it,  you 
thief !  "  but  caution  kept  him  still.  Without  saying 
another  word  he  went  back  to  the  dining-room  and 
ate  his  own  dinner.  When  he  had  finished  he  did 
not  bother  to  clear  away,  but  remained  there  think- 
ing how  best  he  should  set  about  getting  the  thou- 
sand pounds.  The  great  thing  was  to  make  White- 
law  realise  what  he  knew  without  enraging  him !  A 
nasty,  dangerous  brute !  "  Like  to  suck  him  dry," 
he  said  to  himself  malevolently.  How  much  had  he 
already  guessed?  Evidently  a  good  deal!  Had  he 
been  pumping  that  old  fool  opposite?  Well,  he, 
Garbendyke,  hadn't  told  Twm  anything !  —  no,  but, 
they  invent,  they  imagine,  they  go  lying  and  lying! 
He  had  a  sudden  desire  to  run  very  softly  down  the 
passage  and  escape  from  the  flat.  He  had  to  pull 
himself  together  to  repress  a  mad  wave  of  terror 

157 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


that  struck  him  like  a  blow.  If  only  Whitelaw  would 
come  out  into  the  open  and  show  his  hand !  He  got 
up  from  his  chair  and  went  softly  to  the  library 
door.  This  time  there  was  no  sound  within.  He 
seemed  almost  to  see  Whitelaw  sitting  at  his  big 
table  staring  straight  in  front  of  him.  And  per- 
haps the  little  old  man  was  waiting  outside!  He 
had  a  horrible  sensation  of  being  caught  in  a  trap. 
By  now  it  had  begun  to  grow  dark  in  the  passage. 
Garbendyke's  assurance,  born  in  crowds  and  day- 
light, was  fast  melting.  But  like  many  low  and 
cunning  natures  he  had  a  taint  of  natural  cruelty  in 
him  which  he  had  never  been  able  to  gratify.  He 
was  the  sort  of  man  who  would  have  committed  un- 
heard of  ferocities  in  a  revolution,  but  whose  chance 
in  life  had  made  him  merely  cringing  and  malicious. 
He  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  have  got 
money  out  of  Whitelaw  by  cruelty  —  by  running  a 
needle  into  him,  for  instance.  Thoughts  of  making 
him  go  through  some  humiliating  scene,  a  notion 
even  of  spitting  in  his  face,  flashed  across  his  mind 
—  thoughts  mingled  with  terror.  In  such  people  the 
passions  of  hatred  and  revenge  are  generally  intense, 
smouldering,  and  vicious.  Garbendyke  was  no  ex- 
ception. It  was  these  passions  really  which  pre- 
served his  craven  heart,  these  even  more  than  avarice, 
from  a  counsel  of  flight.  After  he  had  waited  for 
a  few  minutes  he  went  back  quietly  into  the  dining- 

158 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


room.  It  must  have  been  later  than  he  supposed 
because  already  the  day  was  far  gone.  But  it  was 
still  light  enough  for  him  to  see  to  write  down  with 
a  pencil  stump  on  a  half  sheet  of  paper,  "  Mr.  White- 
law,  please  come  and  speak  to  me  at  once  in  the 
dining-room  —  I  don't  mean  to  stay  here  to-night." 
This  he  folded  and  marked  "  immediate "  on  the 
outside.  Then  going  with  it  along  the  passage  he 
shoved  it  under  the  library  door,  knocking  loudly 
at  the  same  instant.  No  sooner  had  he  done  this 
than,  not  waiting  for  any  answer,  he  hurried  quickly 
back  into  the  dining-room  and  shut  the  door.  He 
was  basely  alarmed  at  his  own  temerity  and  waited 
with  feverish  anxiety  for  any  sound  of  Mr.  White- 
law's  approach.  But  he  waited  in  vain.  There  was 
no  sound  at  all.  He  thought  to  himself,  "  It  will 
all  be  over  within  ten  minutes,"  but  at  the  end  of 
ten  minutes  he  was  still  waiting.  The  darkness  in 
the  room  had  rapidly  increased,  but  he  did  not  get 
up  to  turn  on  the  light.  "  Perhaps  he's  asleep,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  Yes,  he  must  be  asleep,"  he  re- 
peated in  a  whisper.  At  that  moment  it  seemed 
to  him  that  there  was  a  sound  of  faint,  regular 
breathing  just  outside  the  door.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  opened  it  with  a  swift  movement.  Facing 
him  in  the  gloomy  passage  stood  Mr.  Whitelaw. 
Garbendyke  uttered  a  cry. 

"  Excuse  me,  may  I  come  in?  "  said  Mr.  White- 
159 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


law,    speaking    with    mock    and    frostly    politeness. 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer  but  entered  imme- 
diately. 

"  Well,  you  seem  surprised  to  see  me,"  he  con- 
tinued in  the  same  tone,  "  but  you  asked  me  to  come 
and  here  I  am." 

While  he  spoke  Garbendyke  had  been  darting  wary 
and  venomous  looks  at  him.  The  recollection  of  how 
he  had  asserted  himself  over  this  scoundrel  only  yes- 
terday, and  how  utterly  he  appeared  to  have  lost  that 
superiority  filled  him  with  rage.  He  was  hardly 
listening  to  what  the  other  had  been  saying,  and 
was  actually  astonished  to  hear  himself  mutter,  "  You 
made  no  sound." 

Mr.  Whitelaw  waived  aside  the  remark. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  have  some  things  yet  to 
learn.  That's  a  very  old  dodge  —  and  a  very  use- 
ful one  too." 

Garbendyke  did  not  say  a  word. 

"  Yes,  a  very  useful  one,"  proceeded  the  other ; 
"  perhaps  if  I  had  been  more  careful  to  use  it  last 
night  it  would  have  been  better  for  us  all  —  eh,  Mr. 
—  Mr.  Garbendyke?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  said  the  little 
clerk,  wetting  his  lip. 

"  I  mean  that  you  wouldn't  have  come  prying  on 
me  then,"  answered  Whitelaw  very  slowly. 

Garbendyke  seemed  to  be  examining  the  carpet. 
160 


The  Wvuld-Be  Friends 


"  I  won't  pretend  to  misunderstand  you,"  he  said 
at  length.  "  You  are  no  fool,  Mr.  Whitelaw." 

"  Yes,  I  am  no  fool,"  remarked  his  host.  "  Listen, 
Garbendyke!  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
you  and  I  will  never  be  able  to  pull  together  unless 
we  fully  understand  one  another  once  and  for  all. 
Do  you  hear  me?  —  once  and  for  all.  I  positively 
will  not  have  you  spying  on  me  or  talking  to  that 
old  man  next  door.  Do  you  hear?  " 

Garbendyke  smiled  a  very  disagreeable  and  acid 
smile. 

"  As  for  the  old  man  next  door,"  he  responded, 
"  I  can  assure  you  he  is  much  more  inquisitive  about 
you  than  I  should  ever  be.  I  suppose  he  told  you 
I  was  asking  all  sorts  of  questions.  True  enough  — 
but  only  because  I  wanted  to  know  how  much  he 
knew.  He's  one  of  those  old  men  who  need  stopping 
—  effectively." 

Mr.  Whitelaw  suddenly  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

"  You  have  a  disgusting  habit  of  inuendo,"  he 
said  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "  You  are  the  vilest  scum, 
Garbendyke  —  yes,  the  vilest !  " 

"  You'll  begin  to  shout  presently,  Mr.  Whitelaw  — 
please  restrain  yourself.  You  continue  to  misunder- 
stand me.  What  have  I  said  now?  Nothing  at  all. 
However,  let  it  pass.  I  wanted  to  remind  you,  Mr. 
Whitelaw,  that  —  you  —  are  —  no  —  fool.  Do  you 
take  me?  For  instance,  you  have  got  here,  in  this 

161 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


flat,  something  that  it  needed  a  very  clever  man  to 
get.  I've  often  wondered  how  things  disappear  at 
these  big  sales.  Most  astonishing!  You  are  an 
able  man,  Mr.  Whitelaw." 

"  What  are  you  leading  up  to  ?  "  shouted  the  other 
all  at  once. 

Garbendyke,  terrified  as  he  was,  resolved  to  play 
his  card. 

"  I  want  a  thousand  pounds  from  you  —  you,  the 
thief  of  the  Baldini  manuscript  from  Perugia,"  he 
said  in  a  threatening  undertone. 

Except  for  the  very  rapid  flickering  of  his  eyelids 
Mr.  Whitelaw  might  have  appeared  not  to  have 
heard. 

"  I  will  not  give  you  one  penny,"  he  said  after 
a  long  pause,  in  a  strange  voice. 

Garbendyke  attempted  to  laugh  but  he  felt  op- 
pressed. 

"  Don't  play  with  me,"  he  answered,  and,  curiously 
enough,  he  spoke  almost  imploringly,  "  you  must 
give  me  a  thousand  pounds,  I  say." 

Mr.  Whitelaw  got  up,  stretching  his  arms  like  a 
man  waking  from  sleep. 

"  Not  one  penny,"  he  muttered  again  in  the  same 
strange  and  mournful  voice. 

"  Be  reasonable,  Mr.  Whitelaw,"  murmured 
Garbendyke,  as  though  appealing  to  his  better 
nature. 

162 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


Mr.  Whitelaw  suddenly  laughed  and  as  suddenly 
ceased. 

"  Very  clever,"  he  sneered ;  "  we  both  seem  to  be 
able  men,  don't  we?  "  and  he  repeated  once  again, 
"  I  won't  give  you  one  penny." 

At  these  words  Garbendyke,  whose  hesitation  and 
uneasiness  had  been  very  obvious,  seemed  to  make  up 
his  mind. 

"  Here,  you  hand  me  over  that  money  or,  damn 
you,  you'll  be  somewhere  else  to-night !  " 

He  expected  a  fearful  outburst,  but  he  was  mis- 
taken. Mr.  Whitelaw  merely  considered  him  con- 
temptuously, and  asked,  "  And  what  guarantee  have 
I  that  you  would  cease  to  trouble  me?  " 

"Guarantee?  I'll  —  I'll  sign  a  paper.  Besides, 
you  don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
put  my  neck  into  this  noose  again,  do  you?  Not 
much!  Come,  where's  the  cash?  " 

Mr.  Whitelaw  gazed  steadily  at  him  without  re- 
plying. That  look  disconcerted  the  little  clerk  and 
made  him  bluster. 

"  Get  along  with  you,"  he  cried ;  "  none  of  your 
tricks  with  me !  I  want  my  money  —  d'y ou  hear  ? 
Shell  out,  you  thief!" 

Mr.  Whitelaw  had  almost  the  appearance  of  a 
dreaming  man.  His  eyes  were  dulled,  his  lips  parted, 
and  the  faintest  smile,  as  at  some  passing  fancy, 
seemed  to  hover  about  his  mouth. 

163 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  I  said  '  once  and  for  all,'  "  he  whispered  in  a 
voice  so  deep  and  ominous  that  Garbendyke  started 
back. 

For  a  second  he  had  the  wild  idea  of  flinging  up 
the  sash  and  shouting  for  the  police,  but  then,  sum- 
moning up  all  his  oozing  courage,  he  said,  "  Don't 
you  attempt  violence,  Mr.  Whitelaw  —  you  had  much 
better  pay  up." 

He  noticed  with  horrible  alarm  and  for  the  first 
time  that  Mr.  Whitelaw  was  carrying  a  heavy,  ebony 
ruler  which  till  now  he  had  kept  well  out  of  sight. 

"What's  that?  —  don't  attempt  any  violence,  I 
say !  "  he  exclaimed  breathlessly. 

It  seemed  to  his  terrified  senses  that  Mr.  Whitelaw 
was  trying  to  conceal  the  ruler  and  that  he  was  hold- 
ing it  furtively  in  his  lowered  palm. 

"  You're  trying  to  hide  that  ruler,"  he  cried  sud- 
denly; "  I  see  it  there  in  your  hand!  What  do  you 
want  to  hide  it  for?  " 

Mr.  Whitelaw  did  not  reply,  but  he  took  one  quick 
step  forward. 

"  My  God,  leave  me  alone !  "  yelled  Garbendyke 
suddenly. 

He  experienced  a  dreadful  intuition  of  evil.  He 
darted  towards  the  door  and  in  another  second  was 
racing  up  the  black  passage  of  the  flat.  But  all  at 
once  he  tripped  over  a  Gladstone  bag,  lying,  fully 
packed,  across  his  path,  and  fell  heavily  to  the 

164 


The  Wvuld-Be  Friends 


ground.  Dazed  and  bruised,  he  got  to  his  feet  and 
staggered  towards  the  outer  door.  Fumbling  in  the 
dark,  he  seized  the  handle  and  attempted  to  open  it. 
It  resisted  his  efforts  because  it  was  locked  and  the 
key  had  been  removed. 

This  discovery  seemed  to  clear  his  brain. 
Trapped!  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead 
as  he  remembered  the  bag  —  packed  as  though  for  a 
departure.  He  dared  not  call  out  for  help.  There 
was  no  time!  He  stood  panting  by  the  door,  shak- 
ing the  handle  and  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts. 
That  monster  would  be  on  him  any  moment!  All 
at  once  he  took  a  frantic  resolve.  He  began  to  walk 
slowly  back  up  the  passage,  calling  out  as  he  did  so, 
"  Mr.  Whitelaw,  I  give  in.  I  don't  want  any  money. 
Let  me  go.  I  ask  for  nothing.  I  give  in ;  I  give  in." 

He  felt  dizzy  again  and  weakly  despairing.  He 
could  have  fallen,  sobbing,  at  Mr.  Whitelaw's  feet. 

"  I  give  in ;  I  give  in,"  he  quavered.  "  Where  are 
you,  Mr.  Whitelaw  ?  " 

He  was  suddenly  answered  by  an  outlandish  guffaw 
close  at  his  elbow. 

"Thank  God!"  he  cried  hysterically;  "it's  all 
right  now ! " 

But  his  time  had  come.  He  was  not  able  to  say 
anything  more  because  at  that  very  instant  he  was 
struck  down  by  a  deadly  blow  behind  the  ear. 

In  the  profound  silence  following  the  crash,  the 
165 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


owner  of  the  flat  heard,  outside,  the  eager,  frightened 
steps  of  his  next  door  neighbour.  It  caused  him  to 
frown.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him  —  ah,  it  was  too 
late  to  think  of  that!  He  knelt  down  by  the  pros- 
trate form  of  the  clerk  and  put  his  hand  upon  his 
heart.  Then  he  slowly  rose  to  his  feet,  trembling 
very  much.  Mr.  Garbendyke,  the  optimist,  would 
never  indulge  in  blackmail  again. 

His  murderer  waited  for  a  minute,  listening  for 
any  further  sound.  Hearing  nothing,  he  groped  his 
way  into  the  dining-room  and  drank  half  a  tumbler 
of  whiskey.  Like  many  desperate  and  violent  men, 
he  had  hardly  realised  as  yet  the  enormity  of  his  own 
deed.  He  forgot  how  carefully  everything  had  been 
planned  in  the  glow  of  righteous  indignation  that 
was  still  uppermost  in  his  mind.  But  he  did  not 
attempt  to  turn  on  the  lights.  He  was  anxious  to  be 
gone.  He  was  dressed  as  for  a  journey,  and  coming 
out  of  the  dining-room  he  carefully  picked  up  his  bag, 
that  contained,  amongst  other  things,  a  priceless 
manuscript  (lettered  upon  its  binding  of  old  red  mo- 
rocco, "  Horae  Beatae  Mariae  Virginis  ad  Usum  Ec- 
clesiae  Romanae ;  cum  calendario  ")  which  had  once 
reposed  in  a  monastery  at  Perugia.  He  smiled 
grimly  to  himself  at  the  thought  that  in  another  min- 
ute Mr.  Whitelaw  would  have  ceased  to  exist  as  com- 
pletely, as  mysteriously  as  his  late  assistant.  The 
instinct  of  self-preservation,  touched  by  some  deep 

166 


The  Would-Be  Friends 


emotion  of  terror,  made  him  hasten.  At  the  door  he 
took  a  key  from  his  pocket,  softly  let  himself  out 
and,  turning,  locked  the  door  behind  him.  He 
seemed  to  breathe  again.  He  was  just  about  to  dart 
down  the  stairs  when  he  became  aware  of  the  little 
old  man  standing  on  his  mat,  regarding  him  with  un- 
wonted excitement  and  agitation. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  "  he  accosted  him  brusquely. 
"  Was  there  ever  any  one  like  you  for  inquisitiveness  ? 
What  do  you  want  now  —  eh?  " 

"That  noise  —  what  was  it?"  said  the  old  man 
huskily. 

"  Noise  —  why,  that  precious  friend  of  yours,  of 
course !  Drunk  as  a  lord !  I  told  you  this  morning 
he  must  have  been  at  it.  But  I've  given  him  a  bit  of 
my  mind.  He  won't  cheek  me  again  in  a  hurry." 

He  laughed  savagely  and  then  suddenly  continued, 
"  I  say,  thanks  for  your  hint.  I  believe  you  were 
right.  I  really  doubt  whether  he's  honest.  At  any 
rate,  I've  given  him  the  sack.  You  won't  be  troubled 
by  him  any  more.  Glad  he  didn't  succeed  in  getting 
money  out  of  you  —  very  glad." 

The  old  man  gazed  at  him  as  though  spell-bound. 

"Why  were  you  locking  the  door  just  now?  "  he 
said  at  length. 

"  Why  the  devil  shouldn't  I  ?  Can't  I  lock  my  own 
door  even?  Will  you  try  and  mind,  your  own  busi- 
ness! It's  always  *  why?  why?  why?  '  with  you.  I 

167 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


believe  you'd  ask  questions  on  the  last  day.     Stop  it, 
can't  you  ?     You're  becoming  a  nuisance !  " 

The  old  man  retreated  backwards,  his  haggard  and 
suspicious  eyes  fixed  on  Mr.  Whitelaw. 

"  Don't  tyrannise  over  me,"  he  mumbled.  "  I 
don't  believe  you're  telling  me  the  truth  —  I  believe 
you're  concealing  something.  I'll  speak  to  the  por- 
ter." 

He  made  ready  to  bang  his  door  in  Mr.  Whitelaw's 
face. 

But  Mr.  Whitelaw  suddenly  began  to  roar  with 
laughter. 

"  You're  an  old  character !  "  he  cried,  beginning  to 
descend  the  winding  stairs,  "  an  old  scandal-monger ! 
Don't  you  know  that  that  fellow  in  there  is  one  of  my 
pals  ?  I've  been  giving  him  a  chance  —  not  my  fault 
if  he  took  the  bottle  instead.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well, 
never  say  die!  See  you  next  week,  I  suppose.  I 
forgive  you  for  being  a  nuisance  as  you're  a  charac- 
ter. Get  hold  of  another  scandal,  old  cock !  Keep's 
you  young." 

His  words  died  away  in  a  fit  of  laughing,  growing 
fainter  and  fainter.  The  old  man,  dubious  and 
frightened,  returned  to  his  flat  and  locked  himself  in, 
while  the  other,  hailing  a  cab,  tried  to  drown  the 
memory  of  his  would-be  friend  by  remembering  that 
Mr.  Whitelaw,  too,  had  ceased  to  exist,  and  that  he 
was  now  Mr.  Turner  —  forever. 

168 


GENERAL  SERVICE 


GENERAL  SERVICE 

WHEN  she  heard  the  drawing-room  bell 
she  did  not  immediately  answer  it  but 
only  turned  up  her  nose,  giving  to  her 
whole  face  an  unpleasant  and  ill-tempered  expression. 
(She  was  not  really  bad-looking  but  had  been  grow- 
ing coarser  lately,  owing  to  her  stoutness.)  She 
sat  alone  in  the  kitchen  in  the  cook's  armchair  which 
she  had  drawn  up  close  to  the  blazing  fire.  Beside 
her  on  the  dresser  were  the  remains  of  a  cup  of  tea 
and  of  several  rounds  of  hot,  buttered  toast.  She 
knew  quite  well  that  she  ought  not  to  eat  this  but  she 
could  never  resist  the  temptation.  If  it  did  fatten 
her  —  what  then  ?  Hadn't  she  tried  every  kind  of 
patent  medicine  and  hadn't  every  one  of  them  been 
useless  ?  She  was  gaining  weight  every  week.  Even 
her  face  was  getting  shapeless  now  and  she  couldn't 
go  upstairs  without  panting.  She  had  been  staring 
into  the  fire  when  her  mistress'  bell  roused  her  out  of 
her  dreams.  She  sat  up,  breathing  heavily  and  de- 
jectedly. 

"  Suppose  I  must  go  now,"  she  muttered,  rising 
from  her  chair  and  yawning. 

171 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Before  leaving  the  room  she  smoothed  her  dress 
and  assumed  a  prim  and  dignified  look.  She  felt 
instinctively  that  this  was  the  only  thing  that  could 
carry  off  her  appearance.  Even  to  the  cook  she 
never  unbent  unless  she  was  really  irritated  (which, 
to  be  sure,  was  rather  frequently)  and  as  for  the 
people  upstairs  .  .  . 

She  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  stifling  her 
gasps,  and  staring  straight  before  her  with  her  head 
well  up. 

"Yes,  madam?"  she  enquired  coolly.  (She  al- 
ways said  "  madam  "  and  not  "ma'am  " —  it  sounded 
more  distant.) 

Although  she  did  not  glance  at  her  mistress  she 
could  tell  at  once  by  the  way  she  was  drumming  on 
the  table  that  she  was  in  a  petulant  mood.  She  was 
an  old  lady  of  seventy  who  had  a  fixed  idea  that 
everything  was  going  wrong  and  that  her  two  serv- 
ants were  only  prevented  from  carrying  on  intrigues 
with  the  tradesmen  from  fear  of  her  wrath. 

"  Why  did  you  not  answer  my  bell  at  once, 
Grace?  "  she  began. 

**  I  was  washing  up  the  tea  things,  madam,"  an- 
swered Grace  with  the  glibness  of  long  practice. 

"  Oh,  well,  as  long  as  you  weren't  wasting  your 
time  —  but  that's  not  what  I  rang  for.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  about  yourself.  I've  been  thinking  of 
doing  so  for  several  weeks.  Do  you  know  that  you 

172 


General  Service 


are  losing  your  looks  " —  she  hesitated  — "  your 
looks  and  your  figure?  Your  appearance  is  not 
what  it  was." 

"  Indeed,  madam." 

The  girl  threw  into  her  voice  an  icy  fury  of  malice 
and  rudeness.  She  had  always  hated  her  ("  inter- 
fering old  fool,"  as  she  called  her),  but  really  this 
was  going  a  little  too  far!  Moreover,  it  filled  her 
with  a  sort  of  despair  that  the  change  should  be  so 
obvious. 

"  Yes,  I  speak  for  your  own  good.  There  is  no 
necessity  to  show  annoyance."  There  was  a  queru- 
lous acidity  in  the  old  lady's  voice  which  was  very 
disagreeable.  "  At  your  age  it  is  most  sad.  I  had 
hoped  to  see  some  improvement."  She  coughed  dis- 
creetly. "  Hoped  very  much.  But  really  as  things 
are  —  besides  you  are  becoming  so  slow.  I  have  not 
only  myself  to  consider.  There  was  a  short  pause. 
"  I  do  hope  you  will  always  lead  a  moral  life,  Grace," 
she  concluded,  as  she  smoothed  her  dress. 

For  the  first  time  since  entering  the  room  Grace 
looked  her  mistress  full  in  the  face. 

"  Are  you  giving  me  notice,  madam  ?  "  she  en- 
quired insolently. 

"  I  am,  Grace,  and  I  am  very  sorry  to  see  that 
your  manners  have  deteriorated.  A  most  painful 
alteration  —  most  painful.  I  am  afraid  there  can 
be  no  question  of  a  reference."  Observing  that  her 

173 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


servant  did  not  flinch,  she  added  condescendingly, 
"  However,  I  will  think  it  over.  When  the  time 
comes  you  may  ask  me  again." 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  once  yet,  madam,"  said 
Grace. 

The  old  lady's  lip  trembled  with  rage. 

"  I  dismiss  you  for  impertinence ! "  she  screamed. 
"  Go  at  once !  And  not  a  penny  do  you  get !  " 

"  I  must  have  my  month's  wages,  madam,"  replied 
Grace  with  ominous  calm. 

"  No,  not  a  penny !  "  repeated  the  old  lady,  shak- 
ing like  a  leaf. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  County-Court  you,  madam," 
remarked  Grace  with  cynical  familiarity. 

"  At  once,  do  you  hear,  leave  the  room !  "  cried  the 
old  lady. 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  observed  the  imperturbable 
Grace.  "  And  perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
have  my  money  sent  down  to  the  kitchen.  I  shall  go 
this  evening."  She  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  And  I 
hope  you  will  be  better  suited  by  your  new  servant 
and  —  and  suit  her  better." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  she  walked  out  of  the 
room.  But  her  calm  was  only  artificial  because  she 
was  no  sooner  back  in  the  kitchen  than  she  gave  way 
to  hysterical  weeping.  After  a  time  she  went  to  the 
glass  to  rearrange  her  hair  which  was  beginning  to 
get  into  her  eyes.  She  sighed  deeply  at  her  appear- 

174 


General  Service 


ance.  Then  she  went  into  the  miserable  little  room 
in  which  she  slept  and  began  to  pack  her  box.  Her 
clothing  consisted  mostly  of  "  finery  " —  on  which  she 
had  spent  much  of  her  wages  since  she  had  given  up 
buying  patent  medicines.  She  arrayed  it  out  on  the 
bed.  It  cheered  her  to  see  it  like  that,  conjuring 
before  her  mind,  as  it  did,  all  sorts  of  thrilling  adven- 
tures. For  several  minutes  she  surveyed  the  bed 
with  a  complacent  and  satisfied  air.  .  .  .  But  then 
again  the  thought  of  her  misfortunes  came  upper- 
most and  she  could  not  restrain  her  tears.  .  .  . 

When  the  cook  returned  she  found  Grace  sitting, 
red-eyed  and  defiant,  before  her  tin  trunk. 

"  Well,  I  declare!  "  she  ejaculated. 

She  began  to  question  her  closely.  But  Grace  had 
no  inclination  to  be  "  drawn  "  and  only  snapped  in 
reply,  "  It's  the  old  cat  upstairs ;  you  can  ask  her." 

Throwing  up  her  hands,  the  cook  gave  way  to  sev- 
eral wondering  exclamations.  But  she  kept  dis- 
creetly to  herself  that  she  had  been  trying  to  under- 
mine Grace's  position  with  her  mistress  for  some  time 
past.  She  disliked  the  girl's  "  superior  "  manner. 

Grace,  in  spite  of  her  temperament,  felt  so  forlorn 
that  she  almost  allowed  herself  to  make  a  confidante 
of  the  cook,  which,  of  course,  would  have  resulted  in 
her  weeping  copiously  in  her  arms,  but  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  her  that  the  other's  astonishment  was 
overdone,  and  at  that  all  her  aloofness  was  redoubled. 

175 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  Indeed,  are  you  surprised?  "  she  remarked  iron- 
ically. "  I  should  have  thought  you  knew  her  ways 
by  now." 

At  that  very  instant  the  bell  upstairs  rang  out 
again. 

"  You  can  answer  it,"  said  Grace ;  "  I'm  not  going 
near  her." 

The  cook  would  certainly  have  declined  to  do  any- 
thing of  that  sort  had  she  not  been  consumed  by 
curiosity. 

"  All  right,  Grace,"  she  replied  loftily,  "  and  I 
hope  you  will  be  sorry  for  what  you  have  just 
said." 

After  about  five  minutes  she  returned  with  an 
extremely  irritating  and  mysterious  smile  on  her 
lips. 

"  This  is  for  you,  Grace,'*  she  said,  handing  her 
an  envelope  in  which  were  two  pounds  (her  month's 
wages)  and  a  tract  concerning  the  dangers  awaiting 
girls  in  the  London  streets.  Grace  took  it  from  her 
hand,  wrapt  the  money  in  her  handkerchief,  and 
threw  the  tract  into  the  fire. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  ungrateful  girls ! "  cried  the 
cook. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Grace,  rising.  "  I  must 
go  and  get  a  cab  now." 

The  cook  eyed  her  malevolently.  "  But,  of 
course,"  she  continued  as  though  unaware  of  offence, 

176 


General  Service 


"  of  course,  with  your  appearance,  Grace,  you  won't 
be  under  such  temptations.  That's  what  comforts 
me." 

Grace  had  just  sufficient  control  of  her  temper  not 
to  bang  the  door  behind  her. 

It  was  still  snowing  outside  and  the  snow  was  turn- 
ing into  slush  in  the  salted  streets.  A  chill  wind  was 
blowing  up  from  the  river.  She  shivered  as  she 
stood  on  the  pavement  whistling  for  a  four-wheeler, 
but  it  was  more  with  rage  and  despair  than  with 
actual  cold. 

Presently  an  old  battered  cab  came  staggering  up 
out  of  the  darkness.  The  driver,  muffled  in  a  huge 
ulster,  gazed  stolidly  down  at  her. 

"  You  want  a  cab,  miss  ?  "  he  muttered  incredu- 
lously. 

"  Yes,  it's  for  myself.  Could  you  help  me  to  carry 
my  box?  " 

Without  a  word  he  got  down  and  went  with  her 
into  the  area. 

The  cook  pretended  to  ignore  their  existence  and 
continued  over  her  work  with  a  severe  expression. 
The  cabman  gave  her  one  long  stare  and  then  hoisted 
up  the  box  and  went  forth  in  silence.  Grace,  after  a 
final  glance  round  her  room,  followed  him.  It  had 
been  her  home  for  three  years  —  she  would  see  it  no 
more. 

When  she  reached  the  street  again  the  cabman  had 
177 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


already  remounted  and  her  box  was  on  the  roof.  It 
seemed  to  her  heated  imagination  that  he  must  have 
been  there  all  the  time,  because  he  was  gazing  down 
at  her  with  just  that  same  stolid  look  which  he  had 
given  her  when  he  first  drew  up.  But  instead  of  ask- 
ing her  whether  she  wanted  a  cab  he  mumbled  thickly, 
"Where  to,  miss?" 

Where  to,  indeed!  For  the  first  time  the  bare 
reality  of  her  position  flashed  before  her.  Where 
to  ?  Why,  nowhere !  Where  could  she  go  ?  "  What 
brutes  people  are !  "  she  whispered  inaudibly.  She 
felt  a  great  pity  for  herself,  an  abounding  and  tragic 
pity.  She  could  have  screamed.  But  after  a  mo- 
mentary pause  she  replied  calmly,  "  Drive  towards 
Westminster,  please  —  I'll  tell  you  where  to  in  a  few 
minutes." 

They  began  to  drive  slowly  along  the  Embank- 
ment. She  felt  cold  in  the  cab  and  the  noiselessness 
oppressed  her.  Besides,  the  refrain  kept  rolling  in 
her  head,  "Where  to?  .Where  to?"  "Oh,  what 
shall  I  do?  "  she  murmured  distractedly.  She  remem- 
bered hearing  something  about  servants'  homes,  but 
at  the  mere  notion  she  gave  a  contemptuous  toss  of 
her  head.  "  More  tracts,"  she  thought,  dismissing 
the  idea  at  once.  But  she  must  think  of  some  place. 
The  cabman  would  be  wondering,  and  then  the  ex- 
pense—  but  where,  where?  She  counted  her  money 
—  three  pounds  and  four  shillings. 

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So  softly  had  the  cab  been  travelling  over  the  snow 
that  she  had  not  noticed  it  stopping.  She  was 
greatly  startled  to  see  the  cabman's  head  thrust 
through  the  door. 

"  Excuse  me,  miss,"  he  asked  bluntly,  "  but  have 
you  made  up  your  mind  yet?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I  haven't,"  she  answered  awkwardly ; 
"  that's  to  say,  not  altogether." 

"  Then  you  aren't  going  to  no  situation  ?  —  now 
I  thought  you  wasn't."  A  gloomy  satisfaction 
showed  itself  in  his  voice. 

Grace  made  a  gesture  of  indifference. 

"  I  can  go  anywhere  I  like,"  she  said,  bridling  a 
little. 

"  Yes,  but  where  are  you  going?  "  insisted  the  cab- 
man. 

That  same  question  again !  Where  was  she  going 
—  where?  She  looked  at  him  blankly,  shaking  her 
head. 

"  Well,  miss,  excuse  me  for  speakin',  but  there's 
my  wife  now  —  down  Pimlico  way  —  she's  got  a 
room,  if  you  was  to  think  of  it." 

Grace's  expression  lit  up  with  an  air  of  genuine 
pleasure. 

"  No,  really  and  truly  —  she  would  take  me  in  ?  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  That  is  good.  Just  for  a  few 
days  till  I  can  settle  my  plans."  (She  could  not 
avoid  this  hint  of  importance. )  "  Yes,  it  would  be 

179 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


very  convenient."  She  looked  rather  shy.  "  Very 
convenient,"  she  added  hastily.  "  I  must  thank  you. 
It's  kind  of  you." 

In  a  short  time  they  drew  up  in  a  little  dark  street 
and  the  cabman  jumped  down  and  dived  along  a  nar- 
row passage. 

Presently  he  returned,  lifted  her  box,  and  asked 
her  to  follow  him.  His  house  was  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  which  smelt  more  strongly  at  every  step. 
She  was  ushered  into  a  small  room  in  which  stood, 
very  bolt  upright,  an  elderly,  thin  woman  of  the  same 
sort  of  type  as  her  late  mistress.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  who  invariably  wear  black  and  whose 
every  glance  expresses  a  tacit  disapproval  of  any 
conceivable  action. 

"  Good  evening  to  you,"  she  said.  "  My  husband 
tells  me  that  you  want  a  room." 

Grace's  antagonism  was  at  once  aroused. 

"  I  do  want  a  room  but  it's  only  for  a  few  nights," 
she  answered.  "  I  can  pay  well  for  it  and  in  ad- 
vance, too,  if  you  like." 

For  answer  she  got  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  You'd  best  come  with  me,"  said  the  cabman, 
starting  up  from  the  fire. 

It  was  dark  on  the  staircase  and  she  followed  him 
as  well  as  she  could.  Her  room  was  an  attic  one  with 
a  sloping  roof  and  damp  walls.  It  had  an  aspect  of 
the  most  complete  squalor  and  dreariness  and  was  lit 

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by  a  single  candle.  The  cabman  placed  her  box  on 
the  floor. 

"  Pooh,  it  ain't  much  of  a  place  after  all,"  he  ob- 
served sheepishly.  "  Still  .  .  ."  He  rubbed  his 
nose.  "  I  say,  miss,  could  you  pay  me  for  the  cab?  " 
he  added  quickly.  "  My  old  woman's  a  bit  graspin'. 
She's  built  that  way.  It'll  be  two  shillin's  for  the 
cab."  He  winked.  "  She'd  stick  it  on  the  bill,"  he 
whispered  in  a  hoarse  undertone,  "  and  where  should 
I  be  then  ?  Er,  tell  me  that  ?  " 

Grace  gave  him  the  two  shillings  without  a  word. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  she  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  and  allowed  her  hands  to  fall  helplessly 
into  her  lap.  This  was  romance!  She  made  a  sign 
of  disgust.  What  an  awful  place,  what  awful  peo- 
ple! ("The  man's  a  fraud,  too,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. )  She  felt  that  her  dignity  had  suffered  an  out- 
rage. But  at  length  she  rose  and  began  to  unpack 
her  box.  Without  voicing  it  to  herself  she  had  al- 
ready made  her  plans  for  the  evening.  She  knew 
some  shop-assistants.  .  .  .  She  had  got  to  know  them 
several  years  before  at  the  skating-rink.  She  had 
gone  there  because  she  thought  the  exercise  would 
keep  her  slim  —  vain  hope !  She  was  pretty  then 
and  they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  treating  her  — 
latterly  she  had  had  to  treat  them.  They  had  even 
tried  to  shake  her  off  but  she  had  clung  to  them  with 
desperation.  She  used  to  buy  threepenny  seats  for 

181 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


them  at  the  Cinema  and  provide  them  with  beer. 
She  called  them  her  "  boys "  ( there  were  two  of 
them),  and  though  they  were  selfish,  drunken,  heart- 
less and  stupid,  she  had  woven  a  sort  of  romance 
round  them.  This  evening  she  meant  to  dazzle 
them  as  she  had  never  dazzled  them  before.  Piece 
by  piece  she  took  out  her  "  finery.".  .  . 

When  at  length  she  surveyed  herself  in  the 
cracked  and  blotchy  glass  she  could  not  help  smil- 
ing. She  dabbed  touches  of  powder  on  her  pale 
cheeks.  Good!  What  would  her  boys  think  of  her 
to-night?  And  she  would  have  to  treat  them  well, 
too!  Yes,  indeed!  They  were  apt  to  be  a  little 
"  difficult "  nowadays. 

She  was  just  counting  over  her  money  again, 
calculating  how  much  she  could  afford  to  spend, 
when  the  cabman's  wife  entered  the  room.  She 
caught  sight  of  the  gold  lying  in  the  open  handker- 
chief and  her  eyes  glittered.  Then,  observing  the 
appearance  of  the  girl,  she  compressed  her  mouth. 

"  Are  you  going  out  to-night?  "  she  asked  grimly. 

"  Certainly  I  am,"  said  Grace  without  looking 
round. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  Well,  I  will  trouble  you  to  pay  in 
advance  as  you  suggested.  One  week's  board  and 
lodging,  fifteen  shillings;  and  you  may  add  two  and 
sixpence  for  the  price  of  the  cab." 

Grace  restrained  her  rising  indignation. 
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"  I  paid  your  husband  two  shillings  exactly  for 
the  cab,"  she  said  with  emphasis.  "  And  about  the 
other  thing,  I'm  not  going  to  be  here  a  week.  I'll 
give  you  seven  and  six  for  half  a  week." 

"  No,  miss,  you  must  give  me  the  whole  of  the 
fifteen  shillings  or  I  can't  keep  you.  As  to  the 
cab,"  she  added  venomously,  "  allow  me  to  say  that 
I  know  a  good  many  things  my  husband  doesn't." 
This  rather  vague  retort  seemed  to  give  her  a  sense 
of  triumph.  She  looked  sternly  round  on  the 
"  finery "  strewn  on  the  bed  and  covering  Grace 
herself.  "  And  what's  more,"  she  continued, 
"  you  must  understand  that  I  am  a  respectable 
woman." 

"  I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Grace  stiffly.  "  How- 
ever, I  won't  bandy  words  with  you,"  (this  was  a 
favourite  expression  of  her  late  mistress )  " —  here's 
your  fifteen  shillings.  And  now  please  let  me  have 
a  latch-key." 

"  Latch-key,  indeed ! "  exclaimed  the  other. 
"  That's  a  fine  word !  And  pray,  what  should  I  be 
doing  with  latch-keys  ?  "  (  She  attempted  to  mimick 
Grace's  accent.)  "  No  nonsense  of  that  sort  in  my 
house.  You  can  knock  at  the  door  like  other  people. 
If  it's  to  hide  your  coming  in  late,  all  I  can  say  is 
—  all  I  can  say  is  that  you'd  better  not  begin  that 
sort  of  thing  here." 

Grace  was  almost  speechless  with  anger.  "  You 
183 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


—  you  won't  gain  anything  by  insults,"  she  almost 
sobbed.  "  Leave  me  to  myself,  please !  " 

With  a  sour  smile  on  her  lips  the  cabman's  wife 
went  slowly  out  of  the  room. 

Although  she  was  so  furious  Grace  understood  at 
once  that  there  must  be  some  sort  of  jealousy  at  work 
in  the  heart  of  the  wife.  She  curled  her  lip.  What 
a  fool  the  woman  was !  Fancy  thinking  that  she 
would  "  carry  on  "  with  a  cabman !  Bah ! 

She  waited  for  a  few  minutes,  then  tip-toed  down- 
stairs, and  ran  out  into  the  alley.  It  had  stopped 
snowing  by  now  and  the  wind  seemed  to  be  lessen- 
ing. She  had  thrown  a  thick  coat  round  her  and 
she  wore  a  pair  of  goloshes  over  her  fanciful  shoes. 
In  a  lighted  thoroughfare  not  far  from  the  Em- 
bankment, somewhere  behind  Victoria  Station,  she 
jumped  on  to  a  'bus  and  in  less  than  twenty 
minutes  had  reached  her  destination.  It  was  a  pub- 
lic-house in  a  side  street,  one  of  those  public-houses 
that  do  a  discreet  and  regular  business  with  a  class 
of  men  who  never  seem  to  be  quite  sober  and  who 
always  live  "  just  round  the  corner."  She  hesi- 
tated for  an  instant  outside,  then,  seeing  that  no 
one  was  in  sight,  she  slipped  in. 

As  she  had  expected,  her  two  "  boys  "  were  sitting 
in  a  corner  of  the  bar,  drinking  beer.  They  were 
undersized  young  men  with  spotty  complexions  and 
thin,  sandy  moustaches.  One  of  them  had  warts 

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General  Service 


on  his  fingers.  They  greeted  her  without  effusion, 
indeed  with  a  certain  disgust,  but  as  she  immedi- 
ately ordered  them  more  drink  they  began  to  be 
slightly  mollified.  She  addressed  them  as  Herb  and 
Alf  in  tones  of  solicitude  and  endearment.  Were 
they  cold,  would  they  like  something  to  eat,  had 
the  manager  been  nagging  again,  and  so  on,  and 
so  on?  Herb  and  Alf  were  sulky,  answered  by 
grunts  and  monosyllables,  didn't  see  "  why  folk 
couldn't  leave  them  alone,"  etc.  She  took  no  notice 
of  all  this.  They  accepted  her  gifts  with  grudging 
condescension  —  still,  they  accepted  them.  That 
was  always  something.  Presently  they  became  more 
talkative,  inveighing  graphically  against  the  hard- 
ness of  their  lives.  She  listened  with  sympathy. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you  more,"  she  murmured, 
feeling  a  wonderful  and  disinterested  tenderness  in 
her  heart. 

They  laughed  unrestrainedly. 

"D'yer  'ear  that,  Alf?"  said  Herb,  digging  him 
in  the  ribs. 

Alf  chuckled. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  them  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  mean  it,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  if  you  would 
only  believe  me  sometimes!  Why  don't  you?  It's 
all  true  —  oh,  it  is !  "  Then  changing  her  tone  she 
added,  "  Look,  I've  put  on  some  good  clothes  —  I 

185 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


thought  you  might  like  sixpenny  seats  this  cold 
night."  She  opened  her  handkerchief  and  showed 
them  the  contents.  "That's  not  so  bad,  is  it?" 

"  You're  a  lucky  girl,  Grace,"  said  Alf.  "  Poor 
devils  like  us  don't  'andle  cash  like  that,  do  we 
'Erb?" 

"That  we  don't!"  replied  Herb.  "You  can't 
think  what  our  life  is,  Grace  —  it's  'ell !  " 

"  And  look  at  'er  dress,"  continued  Alf  rhetor- 
ically (she  had  opened  her  coat  as  though  unin- 
tentionally). "There's  money  for  yer!  There's 
taste,  'Erb!" 

The  "  girl  "  behind  the  bar,  a  woman  of  about 
forty-five  with  bright  yellow  hair,  the  complexion 
of  a  corpse,  and  an  impossible  pearl  necklace,  sud- 
denly giggled  and  then  began  dusting  the  bottles 
with  great  energy. 

"  Don't  yer  mind  'er,  Grace,"  said  Alf  generously. 

"  I'm  only  thinking  of  you.  I  want  you  to  have 
a  good  time,"  answered  Grace,  smiling  painfully. 

The  two  shop  assistants  exchanged  glances. 

"Won't  you  come  to  the  Cinema  now?"  she 
added.  "  We  could  have  a  rare  evening  —  you 
know  you'd  like  it." 

"  Our  boots  ain't  any  too  good,"  replied  Herb 
sadly ;  "  and  in  this  wet  .  .  .  they're  leaky." 

Grace  was  thunderstruck. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  cried  breathlessly, 
186 


General  Service 


"  that  you  haven't  got  proper  boots  ?  No,  that's 
too  awful !  Here,  take  this  —  take  this  money ! 
Here's  a  half  sovereign  for  you  and  Alf;  buy  new 
boots  with  it." 

She  had  lost  all  thought  of  herself.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  her  to  tell  them  of  her  own  misfortunes. 
Her  pity  for  herself  had  been  swallowed  up  in  the 
deep  pity  she  felt  for  these  two  men.  At  heart  she 
realised  that  they  laughed  at  her  and  despised  her, 
but  still  they  were  all  she  had  and  she  loved  them. 
It  was  not  love  in  the  ordinary  sense  —  she  knew  it 
was  hopeless  to  think  of  that  —  it  was  a  sort  of 
maternal  devotion.  She  was  older  than  they.  If 
she  could  only  protect  them  a  little,  ever  so  little! 
Her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Take  it,  Herb,"  she  said,  thrusting  the  ten- 
shilling  bit  into  his  hand,  "  and  if  it's  not  enough, 
why  you  just  tell  me?  " 

Herb  took  it  as  though  regretting  the  necessity. 
He  looked  particularly  sly  at  that  moment. 

"  You're  a  pal,  you  are,"  he  muttered,  shifting  on 
his  feet  — "  here,  Alf,  d'yer  know  where  a  bloke  can 
buy  two  pairs  of  boots  for  ten  shillings  ?  " 

The  barmaid,  who  was  watching  the  scene  with 
languid  enjoyment,  suddenly  gave  an  artificial 
laugh. 

"  You  are  cautious,  you  two,"  she  simpered,  "  why 
can't  you  leave  the  poor  gal  alone?  "  Then  address- 

187 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


ing  the  air  in  general,  she  added,  "  It's  really  too 
absurd."  She  had  evidently  an  educated  sense  of 
humour. 

Grace  felt  herself  growing  hot  all  over. 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  enough,"  she  murmured  hur- 
riedly. "  Take  this  pound  instead."  She  smiled 
bravely  at  them.  "  Look  at  my  lovely  shoes !  "  she 
continued,  blushing  a  little  as  she  kicked  off  her 
goloshes. 

"  Hum  —  don't  suppose  you  got  them  for 
nothink,"  observed  Alf  critically,  cocking  his  eye 
at  the  barmaid. 

"  That  I  didn't.  They  cost  me  twelve-and-six.  I 
thought  you'd  like  them,  Alf." 

All  four  people  in  the  bar  suddenly  began  to 
laugh.  But  with  Grace  it  was  as  near  to  weeping  as 
possible. 

"  Do  come  now,"  she  urged.  "  It's  getting  late. 
You  won't  see  the  whole  programme  if  you  keep 
sitting  here." 

The  young  men  rose  unwillingly. 

"  Are  you  really  going,  gentlemen  ?  "  asked  the  bar- 
maid in  a  supercilious  and  smirking  voice. 

"  Well,  are  we,  Alf? "  said  Herb,  ignoring  the 
glances  of  the  servant. 

"  May  be  yes,  may  be  no,"  replied  Alf.  "  It's  a 
—  night  outside." 

"  Do,  do  come !  "  said  Grace. 
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General  Service 


"  I  ain't  got  no  proper  paints,"  objected  Alf, 
shivering  realistically. 

"  No,  nor  I  neither,"  chimed  in  Herb,  chattering 
his  teeth. 

The  barmaid  went  into  such  convulsions  that  she 
had  hastily  to  retire  into  the  back  room. 

Grace  snatched  her  opportunity. 

"  I'll  make  all  that  right  if  you'll  only  come,"  she 
whispered  vehemently.  "  Don't  let  that  girl  laugh 
at  me  any  more,  Alf."  She  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "  Oh,  do  come !  "  she  added  in  piteous 
agitation. 

They  little  knew  (and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  would 
not  have  cared  at  all  to  know)  what  it  had  cost  her 
to  humble  herself  in  the  presence  of  that  woman. 
They  were  regarding  her  with  an  air  of  distaste, 
uncertainty,  and  greed. 

"  What'll  yer  make  right?  "  said  Herb  with  brutal 
frankness. 

She  knew  what  they  meant.  She  thought  sud- 
denly, "  They'll  leave  me  with  nothing,"  but  she  an- 
swered at  once,  "  Why,  about  the  underclothing  — 
I'll  give  you  money  to  buy  some." 

"  Oh,"  said  Herb  with  a  faint  tinge  of  embarrass- 
ment, "  that's  you  all  over,  Grace."  He  prodded 
Alf  in  the  ribs.  "What  have  yer  got  to  say,  Alf? 
'Aven't  I  always  told  yer  as  'ow  Grace  was  kind- 
'earted?  " 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


The  two  precious  friends  nodded  sagely.  At  the 
same  instant  the  barmaid  returned  with  a  more  or 
less  composed  face. 

"  Look  here,  Alf,"  whispered  Grace  desperately, 
"  if  you  and  Herb  come  now  —  now,  at  this  moment 
—  I'll  give  you  another  ten  shillings." 

"  What,  still  here,  gentlemen ! "  observed  the  bar- 
maid in  a  tone  of  polite  surprise. 

"  You  hold  your  tongue ! "  shouted  the  gallant 
Alf. 

*'  Make  it  a  quid,"  he  muttered,  turning  to  Grace 
and  looking  balefully  at  her.  Herb  was  scowling. 

"  All  right,  only  come !  "  she  implored,  and  stoop- 
ing down  she  fastened  on  her  goloshes,  then,  pulling 
her  coat  closely  round  her,  she  ran  out  of  the  bar. 

It  had  begun  to  snow  again.  She  stood  in  the 
protection  of  the  porch,  waiting  for  the  two  men. 
Suddenly  she  heard  a  peal  of  laughter  from  the  three 
people  inside,  then  a  loud  "  Hush !  "  then  silence, 
followed  by  whispers. 

She  shut  her  eyes,  trembling  all  over. 

A  minute  later  the  two  men  reeled  outside. 

"  Where's  that  quid  ?  "  asked  Herb  at  once,  in  a 
tone  of  great  determination. 

She  pressed  it  into  his  hands. 

Without  so  much  as  thanking  her  he  half-opened 
the  door  again  and  called  through,  "  Ye'r  wrong  — 
I've  got  it." 

190 


General  Service 


She  took  them  one  by  each  arm  and  literally 
dragged  them  into  the  road. 

"  No,  yer  don't,  Grace,"  said  Herb,  breaking 
free  and  gazing  at  her  with  tipsy  disapproval. 
"  Yer  —  !  Alf  and  me  don't  allow  no  liberties." 

"  No,  should  say  not,"  echoed  the  virtuous  Alf, 
wrenching  himself  free  on  his  part. 

The  night  air  had  muddled  their  already  sodden 
minds.  They  stared  at  her  with  inflamed  eyes, 
breathing  horribly  of  beer. 

"  Don't  yer  try  no  tricks  on  with  us,  Grace," 
said  Alf,  "we  aren't  on  the  loose;  and  if  we  was 
you  aren't  the  sort  —  not  by  a  long  chalk." 

Grace  looked  at  them  with  despair. 

"  You're  not  coming  to  the  Cinema  ?  "  she  stam- 
mered incredulously.  Then  flaring  up  she  shouted 
all  at  once,  "  You  know  quite  well  that  I'm  not  that 
sort  of  girl.  How  can  you  treat  me  like  this ! 
Haven't  I  given  you  everything  I  have  almost! 
Haven't  I  done  everything  I  can ! " 

She  burst  into  tears. 

The  sight  of  her  grief  caused  a  wave  of  sentimen- 
talism  to  dim  the  eyes  of  the  two  drunkards.  It 
might  equally  have  caused  them  to  kick  her. 

"  Don't  take  on  so,"  mumbled  Herb,  sniffing. 
"  We  wouldn't  harm  'er,  would  we,  Alf?  " 

Alf  was  much  moved. 

"  That  we  wouldn't,"  he  hiccoughed.  "  But  don't 
191 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


talk  no  more  about  Cinemas,  Grace.  Them's  places 
of  sin.  We're  going  back  'ome,  'Erb  and  me." 

(They  "  lived  in,"  as  it  is  called.) 

Grace  suddenly  smiled. 

"  Then  I'll  walk  with  you,"  she  said.  "  It's  good 
to  hear  you  talk  kindly,  my  dears." 

They  looked  owlishly  at  her. 

"  Don't  yer  lead  us  into  no  temptations,  Grace," 
observed  Alf  reprovingly. 

She  laughed. 

"  Here,  you  take  hold  of  my  arms,"  she  replied ; 
"  you  take  one,  Herb,  and  you  the  other,  Alf." 

Thus,  romantically  entwined,  they  proceeded  down 
the  street.  They  walked  unsteadily  for  a  very  ob- 
vious reason  and  as  they  walked  the  two  shop  as- 
sistants wept  for  their  past  wickednesses.  They  re- 
called their  mothers  with  fervour,  they  offered  up 
vows  of  a  dramatic  and  stringent  nature.  Natu- 
rally, this  mood  did  not  continue  long.  The  shop 
was  distant  some  way  and  before  they  reached  it 
they  had  passed  out  of  the  penitent  stage  into  one 
of  active  quarrelsomeness.  They  wanted  to  know 

why  the they  should  be  walking  about  with 

this "  Talk  about  fat  women  in  a  show ! " 

muttered  Alf  with  resentment.  Herb  laughed 
spitefully.  Their  anger  was  sincere  but  maudlin. 
They  cursed  Grace,  each  other,  their  employer,  the 
whole  world,  with  complete  impartiality.  They 

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General  Service 


wanted  to  pick  quarrels  with  every  one  they  met, 
they  wanted  to  enter  every  bar. 

Grace  never  answered  them  back  but  only  guided 
their  steps  and  kept  them  firmly  on  the  move.  Her 
heart  sank  within  her  but  her  outward  dignity  had 
reasserted  itself  in  the  open  streets  and  she  resembled 
some  avenging  deity  bearing  off  two  drunkards  to 
retribution.  Her  companions  began  to  sing  a  fool- 
ish song  about  "  A  last  farewell  beneath  the  rising 
moon."  It  touched  their  imaginations  anew  and 
they  wept,  waving  time  with  their  free  arms.  A 
policeman  warned  them  that  they  would  find  them- 
selves in  the  station  if  they  didn't  "  dry  up."  He 
evidently  took  Grace  for  the  ring-leader  and  his 
look  of  personal,  as  apart  from  professional,  dis- 
approval was  meant  to  convey  his  opinion  of  her 
motives.  This  warning  sobered  Herb  and  Alf  and 
they  were  able  to  approach  the  shop  (a  huge, 
gloomy,  shuttered  building)  in  a  more  subdued  state. 
Several  of  the  other  assistants  now  made  their  ap- 
pearance and  at  this  sight  the  two  shook  off  Grace 
and  ran  to  join  them.  Hardly  knowing  what  she  was 
doing,  she  followed  behind.  At  the  little  side  door 
of  the  shop  all  the  men  stopped  for  a  last  drunken 
argument.  Ill  at  ease  Herb  and  Alf  kept  glancing 
round,  only  to  see  with  dismay  that  the  woman  they 
hated  —  this  ghastly  shadow,  this  "  old  man  of  the 
sea  " —  was  standing  a  few  yards  off.  They  beck- 

193 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


oned  her  away  with  cautious  and  violent  gestures, 
they  frowned  with  contorted  faces.  But  she  did 
not  move.  She  stood  gazing  at  them  with  a  dumb 
and  hopeless  look.  Soon  every  one  began  to  notice 
her  and  to  chaff  Herb  and  Alf,  who  would  willingly 
have  strangled  her  at  that  moment.  An  obscene  ex- 
pression passed  round  the  group,  an  expression  re- 
peated loudly  and  shamelessly  and  with  several  vari- 
ations. She  flushed  and  then  went  deadly  pale. 
But  like  some  fascinated  animal  she  remained  rooted 
to  the  spot,  staring  at  them  with  wide  open  eyes. 
All  at  once  an  idea  seemed  to  strike  Alf  and  he  went 
up  to  Herb  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  Both  of  them 
began  to  laugh  as  tipsy  men  laugh,  without  a  sound, 
aimlessly,  idiotically.  This  continued  for  fully  a 
minute,  whilst  the  other  men  gathered  round  them 
and  jeered.  When  they  had  mastered  themselves 
a  little  the  two  whispered,  in  turn,  to  the  whole 
group.  Then  with  supernaturally  grave  faces  Herb 
and  Alf  stepped  over  to  Grace  and  said  solemnly, 
"  Grace,  we've  got  some  pals  'ere  whose  boots  ain't 
no  better  nor  ours,  and  as  for  their  pants  —  why, 
you  can  guess  —  can  yer  give  us  anythink  for 
them?" 

Without  a  word  she  took  out  all  her  remaining 
money  and  handed  it  over. 

She  did  not  speak  to  them  because  she  knew  that 
it  would  be  worse  than  useless.  Besides  —  what  did 

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it  matter?  It  was  all  over.  She  had  suffered  too 
much.  She  turned  on  her  heel  and  walked  slowly 
away.  The  echo  of  their  insulting  laughter  reached 
her  faintly.  She  shuddered  and  increasing  her  speed 
into  one  of  nervous  haste  she  hurried  from  them  into 
the  shelter  of  the  darkness. 

She  had  been  walking  for  a  long  time  before  she 
suddenly  realised  that  she  was  nearing  Pimlico  again. 
Strangely  enough  she  no  longer  felt  at  all  cold,  al- 
though it  was  freezing  hard.  Her  lethargy  had 
given  way  to  an  unnamed  excitement.  She  kept  re- 
peating to  herself,  "  I  have  no  money  now."  But 
outwardly  she  was  as  self-contained  as  she  had  been 
in  the  drawing-room  of  her  late  mistress.  Her 
sacrifice  of  dignity  had  not  humbled  her  spirit.  Her 
sense  of  shame,  which  had  been  swamped  by  her  pity, 
had  all  revived.  She  saw  her  "  boys  "  at  last  quite 
clearly.  "  They  took  everything  I  had  to  give,"  she 
said  to  herself.  And  it  was  not  as  if  they  had  ever 
really  been  the  heroes  of  her  dreams.  The  very 
thought  made  her  smile  disdainfully.  "  What  ears 
they  have !  "  she  murmured,  going  over  their  features 
one  by  one.  She  blushed  crimson  at  the  memory  of 
the  night.  "  They  took  everything  —  no  pity,"  she 
thought  again.  She  was  completely  disillusioned, 
but  she  was  not  comforted.  She  walked  swiftly  on, 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left.  No,  she  was  not 
comforted.  "  I  haven't  a  penny  left,"  she  muttered 

195 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


all  at  once  in  an  astonished  undertone.  The  idea 
seemed  to  smite  her  afresh.  Then  she  recalled  the 
cabman's  wife.  What  would  she  say?  She  stopped 
to  reflect.  Ah,  there  was  only  one  thing  certain !  — 
she  musn't  go  back.  "  I  knew  when  I  gave  it  them," 
she  whispered,  as  though  a  window  had  opened  in  her 
mind.  "  Never,"  she  pronounced  aloud.  That 
alone  was  certain.  She  looked  about  her.  "  Why 
not  end  all  this  ?  "  she  thought.  It  was  so  natural 
an  idea  that  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  summon  up 
self-pity.  "  This  is  how  it  happens,"  she  continued, 
remembering  various  stories  she  had  heard  or  read: 
"  like  this  or  this.  Yes.  And  so  down  they  go  — 
and  why  not?  " 

"  Better  end  it  all,"  she  thought  again. 

A  man  who  had  been  watching  her  for  the  last 
minute  or  two  suddenly  came  close  up  and  looked  at 
her  intently.  He  had  a  sniggering,  tipsy,  and  de- 
praved face  and  he  walked  continually  on  his  toes. 

"  Are  you  —  going  home?  "  he  asked  in  an  unmis- 
takable voice. 

She  turned  haughtily  from  him  and  began  to  run 
towards  the  river.  Her  excitement  was  growing 
more  intense.  "Wait  —  what  is  it?"  she  thought, 
stopping  and  staring  at  the  ground.  "  Why,  of 
course !  "  she  muttered.  It  was  all  plain.  "  Plenty 
of  girls  before  me,"  she  muttered,  and  she  began  to 
move  on  again.  The  melting  snow  on  the  parapets 

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General  Service 


had  frozen  into  cat's  ice  that  crunched  beneath  her 
elbows  as  she  leant  on  it.  The  tide  had  turned  and 
was  setting  towards  the  sea.  And  she  thought  all 
at  once,  "  Suppose  I'm  too  fat  to  sink  and  only  bob 
up  and  down,  dying  from  cold."  The  river,  swollen 
by  the  winter  floods,  flowed  onwards,  gurgling  into 
eddies  and  waves.  She  tried  to  think  of  what  she 
was  going  to  do.  A  strange  gleam  of  tenderness  ir- 
radiated her  heart  and  she  seemed  to  experience  once 
more  every  happy  and  unselfish  emotion  of  her  life. 
Instinctively  she  began  pulling  the  pins  out  of  her 
hair,  letting  it  fall  about  her  in  a  tangled  mass. 
This  action  released  her,  as  it  were,  from  all  her 
past.  It  was  as  symbolic  as  is  the  desire  of  dying 
people  to  bathe  their  hands  in  cold  water. 

Closing  her  eyes  tightly  she  clambered  onto  the 
parapet.  She  felt  so  dizzy  that  she  could  scarcely 
realise  anything,  but,  knowing  that  all  was  finished, 
she  left  herself  fall,  rather  than  threw  herself,  into 
the  river.  She  cried  out  once  in  terror  —  a  cry 
drowned  by  the  wind.  The  water  closed  over  her  im- 
mediately and  in  the  gloom  of  the  deep  night  not 
even  the  bubbles  of  her  expiring  breath  appeared  for 
an  instant  upon  the  angry  surface. 


197 


MONSIEUR  CLAVEL 


MONSIEUR  CLAVEL 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy  at  school  I  always 
looked  forward  to  the  lesson  under 
Monsieur  Clavel.  So  did  every  one. 
As  he  was  a  Frenchman,  we  naturally  considered  him 
an  extremely  ridiculous  person.  He  was  a  small 
man  with  an  enormous  head,  coarse  features,  and 
little,  twinkling  eyes.  He  had  one  of  these  confiden- 
tial and  irritable  natures  that  have  a  fascination  for 
schoolboys  —  one  never  knew  quite  how  far  one 
could  go  with  him.  He  was  a  colonial,  altogether  out 
of  sympathy  with  the  Republic,  and  was  very  fond 
of  talking  about  his  home  in  Guadaloupe.  I  remem- 
ber the  air  of  content  with  which  he  would  watch  us 
assemble  and  the  sudden  gesture  by  which  he  would 
enjoin  silence.  He  used  to  give  us  dictation  from 
La  Fontaine  or  Florian.  "  Un  toup  n'avait  que  les 
os  et  la  peau,"  he  would  begin,  speaking  in  a  reso- 
lute voice  and  smiling  at  us  in  an  extraordinary 
satisfied  and  knowing  way.  He  liked  to  see  his  class 
interested  and  therefore  he  approved  of  questions. 
Our  only  idea  being  to  get  as  much  fun  out  of  the 
hour  as  possible  we  invariably  abused  his  good 
nature.  We  had  a  regular  plan  of  questions  by 

201 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


which  he  should  be  led  back  to  tell  us  of  his  early 
life.  After  three  or  four  lines  of  dictation  some  one 
would  ask  him  a  simple  thing  like,  "  When  was  La 
Fontaine  born,  sir?"  That  was  the  sort  of  inter- 
ruption that  delighted  Monsieur  Clavel.  He  would 
stop  his  dictation  to  cast  a  long,  quizzical  look  at 
the  speaker  and  then  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand  he 
would,  as  it  were,  gather  us  round  him.  He  was 
never  tired  of  dilating  upon  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV, 
the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  Moliere,  Bossuet,  Racine, 
and  so  on.  It  was  the  Golden  Age  for  him.  I  be- 
lieve he  really  fancied  we  were  interested  in  it,  too 
—  we  weren't.  Presently  some  one  would  ask, 
"  Were  your  family  living  in  Paris  then,  sir  ?  " 

Monsieur  Clavel  would  answer,  "  No,  my  family 
comes  from  the  South." 

"  But  you  weren't  born  in  the  South  of  France, 
were  you,  sir?  " 

A  question  such  as  this  would  visibly  affect  Mon- 
sieur Clavel. 

"  No  more  talking,  we  will  continue  with  the  dic- 
tation," he  would  exclaim  wrathfully. 

But  after  another  sentence  he  would  generally  go 
up  to  the  boy  who  had  asked  the  question  and  say 
in  a  tone  of  jocular  melancholy,  "  So  you  want  to 
know  about  my  family,  do  you  ?  "  That  was  a  sign 
for  every  one  to  stop  writing,  and  to  lean  forward 
with  an  air  of  expectancy. 

202 


Monsieur  Clavel 


"  Yes,  sir,  please." 

Monsieur  Clavel  would  give  a  swift,  suspicious 
glance  round  the  room  and  would  enquire  abruptly, 
"  You've  heard  of  the  Revolution  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  we  have,"  every  one  would  murmur 
in  a  tone  of  horror. 

This  manifest  sympathy  seemed  to  soften  Mon- 
sieur Clavel's  heart.  He  would  smile  kindly  and  give 
the  nearest  boy  a  pinch  on  the  ear  (like  Napoleon 
—  whom  he  greatly  despised),  as  he  said,  "  Our  fam- 
ily were  Royalists  emigres" 

Excited  questions  would  greet  this  remark. 

"Were  they  guillotined,  sir?"  "Did  they  dress 
up  in  disguises,  sir  ?  "  "  What  happened  to  them, 
then,  sir?"  "Did  they  escape  to  London,  sir?" 
and  so  on. 

Monsieur  Clavel  would  hold  up  his  hand. 

"  Silence !  "  he  would  shout,  looking  balef  ully  at 
the  form,  "  take  your  pens :  I'm  going  to  dictate 
again." 

And  above  the  scratching  of  the  nibs  you  could 
hear  his  guttural  voice,  "  Uattaquer,  le  mettre  en 
quartiers." 

It  was  about  now  that  the  real  adventures  of  the 
hour  used  to  start.  If  you  played  him  well  he  would 
tell  you  all  about  his  family's  escape  to  Trinidad  and 
finally  to  Guadeloupe  and  he  would  even  go  on  to  tell 
you  about  his  own  boyhood  in  that  island,  but  if  you 

203 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


played  him  badly  you  would  get  at  least  two  hundred 
lines.  He  needed  to  be  a  bold  and  skilful  angler 
who  would  tackle  Monsieur  Clavel  when  the  storm 
signal  was  once  hoisted.  I  remember  many  an  en- 
counter, both  fortunate  and  unfortunate. 

The  danger  was  that  Monsieur  Clavel's  tempera- 
ment varied  from  hour  to  hour.  He  was  subject  to 
sudden  fits  of  reserve  and  suspicion  and  even  in  his 
most  expansive  moments  he  might  turn  and  rend 
you.  I  have  never  seen  a  man  who  could  be  so 
friendly  and  so  severe  in  the  same  lesson.  I  think 
he  was  always  having  to  recollect  that  he  was  a 
schoolmaster  —  moreover  he  would  stand  no  direct 
impertinence. 

I  knew  nothing  of  his  personal  affairs  at  that 
time.  Boys  don't  think  of  that  kind  of  thing.  They 
look  upon  a  master  either  as  a  fool  or  a  hero  —  I 
mean  an  English  master  —  and  they  look  upon  a 
French  master  as  an  obvious  butt.  What  else  is  he 
there  for?  .  .  . 

Monsieur  Clavel  had  been  at  the  school  a  great 
many  years  when  I  came,  and  he  was  still  there  just 
the  same  when  I  left  five  years  later.  The  younger 
boys  were  still  "  having  him  on  "  about  La  Fontaine 
but  we  elder  boys  used  to  read  Moliere  with  him  in 
an  atmosphere  of  genial  intellectuality.  It  was  in 
these  later  years  that  I  first  began  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  his  true  self.  This  fat,  ugly  little  man  had  some- 

204 


Monsieur  Clavel 


thing  in  him  which  I  had  seen  in  no  one  else.  I  don't 
think  I  could  have  explained  it  then  but  I  felt  in- 
stinctively that  it  was  some  rare  quality  which  ridi- 
cule would  not  touch.  The  impression  was  a  half- 
unconscious  one  built  up  by  a  hundred  trifles.  I  re- 
member waiting  behind  one  day  to  tell  him  that  I 
had  heard  from  my  father  saying  that  he  had  been 
in  sight  of  Guadeloupe  on  his  way  from  Martinique 
to  Porto  Rico.  Monsieur  Clavel  was  vastly  pleased. 
He  took  me  by  the  arm  as  though  I  were  a  man  of 
the  world. 

"  So  he  saw  my  home  —  I'm  very  glad.  I  mean  to 
go  back  there  one  of  these  days  —  for  always.  You 
are  a  good  fellow.  You  must  come  and  have  tea 
with  me  one  afternoon." 

He  let  go  my  arm  and  went  quickly  over  to  his 
desk  with  his  short,  podgy  steps. 

*'  I  will  show  you  a  picture  of  my  home,"  he  said, 
and  he  produced  from  underneath  his  papers  a  faded 
photograph  of  a  white-washed,  verandahed  house  set 
amidst  tropical  palms. 

He  didn't  say  another  word  but  held  it  up  to  me 
in  triumph.  I  hardly  looked  at  it  because  I  was 
thinking  of  the  way  in  which  he  had  said  "  for  al- 
ways." Even  to  a  boy  of  eighteen  there  can  be  hori- 
zons in  the  sudden  tone  of  a  voice.  I  remember  mut- 
tering some  words  of  admiration  and  leaving  the 
room.  As  I  went  out  of  the  door  I  saw  him  standing 

205 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


by  his  desk,  a  grotesque  gargoyle  of  a  figure  in  the 
severe  dreariness  of  the  class-room.  It  has  stuck 
in  my  memory  ever  since.  He  looked  out  of  place, 
forlorn,  lonely,  and,  yes,  would  you  believe  it,  almost 
romantic.  I  wonder  whether  I  really  thought  that 
then  or  whether  I've  built  it  round  his  name  since. 
Hard  to  say.  Impossible  to  say. 

I  did  not  go  to  tea  with  him  because  it  was  then 
nearly  the  end  of  my  last  term,  but  from  that  day 
onwards  I  thought  a  good  deal  about  Monsieur 
Clavel.  He  seemed  full  of  possibilities.  I  found 
myself  repeating  the  word,  "  Guadeloupe,"  as  though 
it  had  some  mystical  significance.  Wasn't  he  going 
back  there  to  live  "  for  always  " !  What  a  curious 
old  fellow! 

You  must  not  suppose  that  these  ruminations  out- 
lasted the  term.  That's  not  the  way  a  young  man 
is  made.  Once  I  had  left  school  I  promptly  put  it 
all  out  of  my  mind  —  didn't  think  of  Monsieur  Clavel 
once  in  six  months.  In  fact,  I'm  not  sure  whether  I 
ever  thought  of  him  again  till  nearly  two  years  later 
when  I  had  a  letter  from  my  young  brother  telling  me 
that  "  Old  Clavel  is  not  here  this  term ;  he's  gone 
off  to  Guadeloupe  on  a  visit  —  the  old  fool."  By 
George !  old  Clavel  at  Guadeloupe !  How  it  brought 
it  all  back !  I  sat  down  there  and  then  and  thought 
about  him  for  five  minutes.  But  he  had  passed  too 
completely  out  of  my  life  for  long  remembrance.  I 

206 


Monsieur  Clavel 


even  forgot  to  ask  my  brother  what  Monsieur  Clavel 
had  said  when  he  returned.  I  should  probably  have 
got  nothing  out  of  him  because  he  had  the  profound- 
est  contempt  for  the  French  master.  He  was  a  new 
boy. 

Two  years  after  this,  when  I  had  been  four  years 
away  from  school  and  was  just  beginning  to  talk 
like  a  man  of  fifty,  I  went  to  stay  for  a  week-end 
with  my  old  house-master.  I  alighted  at  the  station 
in  a  very  exalted  mood,  resolved  to  impress  every  one 
back  there  to  live  "  for  always !  "  What  a  curious 
article  on  The  Pleiad  which  was,  of  course,  shock- 
ingly bad,  and  of  which  I  was  ridiculously  proud.  I 
had  brought  a  copy  with  me,  not  to  show  to  my 
old  house-master  (who  had  a  sarcastic  way  with  him 
that  I  remembered  clearly)  but  to  show  to  Monsieur 
Clavel  —  that  lover  of  the  French  Classics.  I  was 
too  deeply  interested  in  myself  to  think  of  Monsieur 
Clavel  apart  from  what  he  would  think  of  me,  so 
it  was  with  a  purely  selfish  emotion  that  I  knocked 
at  his  door  that  Saturday  afternoon.  I  had  had 
lunch  with  my  old  house-master  and  his  air  of  polite 
raillery  had  rather  damped  my  ardour.  But  after 
lunch  he  had  left  me  in  his  garden  while  he  went  to 
attend  to  his  own  affairs,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  eve- 
ning I  had  strolled  down  the  long  avenue  of  pines 
into  College  itself  and  through  the  deserted,  ringing 
quadrangles  and  up  the  silent  staircase  to  Monsieur 

207 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Clavel's  door.  As  I  pressed  the  bell  all  my  self- 
importance  swelled  up  again.  What  would  Monsieur 
Clavel  have  to  say  to  my  paper?  Wouldn't  he  be 
greatly  astonished?  Wouldn't  he  think  I  was  a 
wonderful  person?  I  heard  his  quick,  short  steps 
within  and  in  another  second  the  door  was  opened  and 
he  stood  before  me  —  greyer,  perhaps,  and  fatter, 
but  the  same  Monsieur  Clavel  as  of  old.  He  did 
not  recognise  me  at  once  and  I  had  to  explain  who 
I  was.  But  when  he  recalled  my  name  he  expressed 
delight  at  seeing  me.  He  made  me  come  in  —  he 
was  just  sitting  down  to  tea.  He  resembled  a  grunt- 
ing badger  as  he  trotted  to  and  fro  through  his 
queer  little  warren  of  chambers  getting  the  tea  things. 
His  sitting-room  looked  out  upon  the  distant  play- 
ing-fields and  we  could  watch  the  boys  running  about 
in  their  white  flannels,  and  hear,  through  the  open 
window,  their  far-off  shouts.  It  was  a  soft,  clear 
evening  of  late  June.  I  had  time  to  glance  round 
me  while  Monsieur  Clavel  was  attending  to  his  kettle 
in  the  next  room.  The  walls  were  lined  with  bound 
volumes  of  the  French  Classics,  there  was  a  piano 
in  the  corner,  and  several  big  chairs  were  dotted 
about.  A  smell  of  flowers  and  of  scented  tobacco 
filled  the  air.  Monsieur  Clavel  came  running  in  pres- 
ently with  the  steaming  kettle,  and  proceeded  to 
make  tea. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  he  murmured,  giving  me 
208 


Monsieur  Clavel 


just  that  knowing  and  satisfied  look  which  I  remem- 
bered well. 

It  was  this  expression,  suggesting  old  times  so 
vividly,  that  made  me  suddenly  recall  the  affair  of 
Guadeloupe. 

"  Must  pump  him,"  I  thought.  So  when  we  had 
finished  tea  and  were  sitting  smoking  together,  I  re- 
marked all  at  once,  "  I  hear  you've  been  back  to 
Guadeloupe,  Monsieur  Clavel." 

"  Hum,  yes,  I  went  back,"  he  muttered  quickly, 
frowning  as  though  at  some  disagreeable  idea. 

A  chill  seemed  to  be  cast  over  the  room  for  an 
instant.  He  got  up  with  a  bound  and  seating  him- 
self at  the  piano  played  three  or  four  bars  of  a 
rather  sentimental  tune  by  Rameau.  Then  he  came 
back  with  a  sigh  and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette.  All 
this  astonished  me,  but  I  had  the  sense  not  to  press 
my  questions  further. 

"  Come,  tell  me  what  you  have  have  been  doing 
with  yourself?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

He  had  quite  recovered  his  spirits. 

"  I've  begun  to  write  lately,"  I  answered  in  an  off- 
hand —  and  trembling  voice. 

"  Yes  ?  —  why,  this  is  news  indeed !  " 

He  clapped  his  chubby  hands,  beaming  at  me,  his 
great  face  working  with  pleasure. 

"  I  fancied  you  would  be  interested,"  I  continued ; 
209 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  in  fact,  I  brought  a  little  thing  to  show  you  —  an 
essay  on  the  Pleiad." 

I  produced  it  from  my  pocket  and  handed  it  to 
him  as  though  it  had  been  no  more  than  a  box  of 
matches. 

"  Phew ! "  he  said,  nodding  his  head  very  rapidly 
and  turning  up  his  eyes. 

I  felt  deliciously  happy,  and  my  calmness  became, 
consequently,  almost  abnormal. 

"  Might  I  be  allowed  to  call  to-morrow  and  hear 
what  you  think  of  it  ?  "  I  observed. 

"  I  should  say  so,"  replied  Monsieur  Clavel,  get- 
ting up  and  pinching  my  ear,  "  I  should  say  so ! 
Come  to  tea  —  come  early,  at  three  o'clock.  We'll 
have  a  walk  afterwards." 

He  gave  a  satisfied  smile  and  patted  the  manu- 
script. "  One  of  my  pupils,"  he  murmured. 

"  Tell  me,  Monsieur  Clavel,  are  you  surprised  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  No,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  always  knew 
you  would  do  something." 

I  felt  a  new  thrill  of  pleasure.  Such  is  the  vanity 
of  youth.  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  had  not 
given  me  a  single  thought  from  the  day  I  had  left 
school  to  this  very  afternoon  and  that  his  remark 
was  a  mere  ebullition  of  momentary  enthusiasm  (very 
characteristic  of  him,  too),  and  yet  I  said  to  my- 

210 


Monsieur  Clavel 


self  over  and  over  again,  "  What  insight,  what 
knowledge !  " 

I  went  on  to  talk  about  all  I  intended  to  do  in  the 
future.  Monsieur  Clavel  drank  it  all  in. 

"  You  will  be  a  great  man,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
complete  sincerity  and  conviction.  "As  for  me,  1 
have  done  nothing,  nothing." 

He  stopped  for  a  second  to  ponder  sadly. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  proceeded  all  at  once,  "  that 
I  am  only  living  for  one  thing?  " 

I  looked  as  sympathetic  as  I  could. 

"  Yes,  only  for  one  thing  —  to  make  a  home  for 
my  niece  and  nephew." 

"  Your  niece  and  nephew?  Tell  me  about  them, 
Monsieur  Clavel." 

A  shade  of  reserve  crossed  his  face.  Then,  after 
a  short  hesitation,  he  continued,  "  I  have  bought  a 
little  villa  in  Normandy;  we  are  all  going  to  live 
there  together.  .  .  .  They  are  orphans,"  he  added. 

He  gazed  at  me  with  anxiety. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  resigning?  "  I  asked  as 
tactfully  as  I  could.  ("There  goes  Guadeloupe," 
I  said  to  myself.) 

"  I  have  to,"  he  muttered ;  "  the  new  superannu- 
ation rules.  I  hope  to  get  a  pension." 

This  was  a  side  of  schoolmastering  which  had  never 
presented  itself  to  me  before.  T  was  interested  to 
get  at  the  bottom  of  it. 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  Well,  but  — "  I  began,  and  remembered  that  I 
had  better  keep  off  the  subject  of  Guadeloupe. 
"  Well  —  er  —  when  have  you  to  resign  ?  " 

"  In  four  more  years,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  when 
I'm  sixty.  The  thing  is,  I'm  not  quite  sure  of  my 
pension.  I  joined  too  early.  But  I'm  depending  on 
it.  I've  got  to  depend  on  it." 

It  was  a  notion  which  seemed  to  distress  him.  He 
rose  and  walked  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room  sev- 
eral times.  At  last  he  stopped  in  front  of  the 
window  and  stood  quite  still  there  for  nearly  five 
minutes,  with  his  back  to  me.  When  he  turned 
round  his  face  had  regained  its  calm  and  was  lit  up 
by  an  expression  of  joy  and  happiness. 

"  How  I  love  to  see  all  this  life  about  me,"  he  said. 
"  Thirty  years  now  .  .  ."  (he  sighed)  "  well,  time  is 
bound  to  pass  —  it  is  a  good  place." 

I  did  not  answer. 

("Will  he  remember  to  read  my  article?"  I 
thought  rather  anxiously.) 

"  In  four  years,"  said  Monsieur  Clavel  dreamily, 
"  I  leave  all  this."  He  nodded  his  head,  pursing  up 
his  lips  slyly  as  he  used  to  do  in  olden  days. 
"  Perhaps  I  shall  live  twenty  years  longer.  My 
dear  niece  and  nephew  ...  an  idyllic  spot.  You 
never  saw  such  a  cherry  orchard !  And  the  hens ! 
You  know,  I  spend  all  my  holidays  there." 

He  sat  down  beside  me  and  lit  another  cigarette; 


Monsieur  Clavel 


"  An  acre  of  cherry  orchard,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
think  I  made  a  good  bargain.  But  I  haven't  been 
fortunate  with  my  money.  What  you  call  these 
gild-edged  investments  —  very  bad !  I've  had  some 
losses.  And  your  English  breweries,  too.  I'll  tell 
you  "  (he  leant  confidentially  forward) — "  I'll  tell 
you.  I  had  three  thousand  pounds.  I  had  saved 
it  here  —  a  pound  at  a  time  almost.  My  broker 
kept  advising  me  *  put  it  into  so  and  so.'  Alors" 
(he  hunched  his  shoulders  dramatically) — "down, 
down,  down !  Beastly !  —  Beastly  !  "  he  repeated, 
looking  at  me  as  though  in  fury. 

"  So  you  sold  out  and  bought  this  house  ? "  I 
ventured. 

"  Precisely.  But  you  see,  I  must  have  my  pen- 
sion now.  Of  course  you  won't  say  a  word.  Great 
many  intrigues  here  —  not  the  sort  of  men  I  care 
for  at  all.  I  like  meeting  people  of  talent,  inter- 
esting people.  All  these  schoolmasters  —  bah ! 
Narrow-minded.  I  don't  mix  up  with  them  more 
than  I  can  help.  But  you  —  ah,  ha !  Fancy  your 
being  so  distinguished  already !  Phew  —  an  essay 
on  the  Pleiad!  I  shall  read  it." 

He  smoked  silently,  nodding  his  head.  I  got  up 
to  leave. 

"  Remember  —  to-morrow,"  he  shouted  after  me 
as  he  showed  me  out  of  his  door. 

I  walked  back,  much  pleased  with  myself.  I  had 
213 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


evidently  impressed  Monsieur  Clavel.  I  began  to 
think  of  him  with  real  interest.  What  was  the  truth 
about  his  visit  to  the  West  Indies.  Funny  old  boy ; 
rather  pathetic  too!  I  felt  indulgent  to  old  age. 
Poor  Monsieur  Clavel !  I  wondered  what  his  nephew 
and  niece  were  like.  A  cherry  orchard  —  it  sounded 
all  right ! 

That  evening  after  dinner  when  I  was  sitting  with 
my  old  tutor  in  his  garden  I  brought  up  the  subject 
of  Monsieur  Clavel.  "  What  was  it,  I  asked,  about 
his  visit  to  Guadeloupe  that  had  so  entirely  changed 
his  mind  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Clavel  idealises  things,"  murmured  the 
old  man. 

And  in  the  darkness  of  the  garden  I  felt  the  soft 
breath  of  the  night  touch  my  cheek  and  ripple 
through  the  creeper  behind  me. 

"  Reality  sometimes  kills  romance,"  he  added. 

I  did  not  ask  him  any  more  questions  because  I 
felt  sure  it  would  be  no  use.  Schoolmasters  have 
a  malicious  dislike  of  one  another  as  a  rule.  I've 
often  noticed  it.  I  was  the  more  astonished,  there- 
fore, when  after  a  few  minutes'  silence  he  began  of 
his  own  accord  to  talk  about  Monsieur  Clavel  in  his 
ironic  and  weary  old  voice. 

"  He  was  always  telling  us  in  the  Common  Room 
he  meant  to  settle  finally  in  —  where  was  it?  — 
Guadeloupe?  Every  day  for  years.  I  used  to  say 


Monsieur  Clavel 


to  him,  *  You  haven't  been  there  since  you  were  a 
boy  —  go  and  see  it  first.'  Sound  piece  of  advice. 
Humph!  He  didn't  think  much  of  it.  Between  our- 
selves, I  understand  his  type  quite  well.  Very 
reserved  in  some  ways,  but  incurably  romantic. 
Frightened  of  being  laughed  at.  I  must  say  he  be- 
came a  great  bore.  Some  of  the  younger  men  took 
up  my  line.  Humph!  As  you  know,  he  did  go  at 
last.  He's  never  said  a  word  about  it  to  me,  but, 
of  course,  he's  disillusioned.  What  could  you  ex- 
pect? This  is  all  confidential,  mind.  We  have  to 
cultivate  the  Olympian  manner.  Clavel  was  never 
meant  for  a  schoolmaster.  An  excellent  man  in  his 
way,  most  conscientious.  But  too  romantic,  my 
dear  fellow,  too  romantic." 

He  got  up  slowly,  his  white  shirt  gleaming  in  the 
dusk. 

"  Must  be  going  in,"  he  murmured  in  a  different 
voice,  "  getting  old.  Don't  let  me  disturb  you." 

I  heard  his  feeble  steps  on  the  gravel,  and  then 
once  again  complete  stillness  reigned  in  the  garden. 
It  seemed  strangely  suitable  to  my  thoughts.  At 
twenty-two  one  has  these  moments  of  exquisite 
silence  when  the  mind  rests,  as  it  were,  amidst  the 
babel  of  its  thoughts.  I  did  not  purposely  think  of 
Monsieur  Clavel,  but  gradually  the  image  of  him  pos- 
sessed my  brain.  I  seemed  to  comprehend  him  with 
a  wonderful  and  deep  illumination.  I  cared  no 

215 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


longer  for  my  intellectual  pose,  any  more  than  the 
voyager  sighting  his  promised  land  cares  for  the 
game  of  cards.  The  sweet,  rare  stillness  of  the  night 
had  a  mysterious  significance  for  me.  Beyond  the 
garden  boundary,  in  the  wooded  heath,  a  night- jar 
had  begun  to  whirr.  The  image  of  Monsieur  Clavel, 
more  august  and  moving  at  every  instant,  flooded 
my  mind.  "  I  alone  understand  him,"  I  thought. 
(O  romance,  greatest  and  most  perfidious  of  illu- 
sions !)  I  did  not  go  to  bed  till  very  late. 

By  the  next  day  I  had,  of  course,  entirely  recov- 
ered my  equilibrium.  I  tried  to  shine  at  breakfast 
with  no  particular  success.  This  made  me  all  the 
more  anxious  to  meet  Monsieur  Clavel. 

"  He'll  be  reading  my  article  this  morning  instead 
of  going  to  Chapel,"  I  said  to  myself.  I  was  much 
perturbed.  Could  it  really  be  true  that  I  was  a 
genius?  Well,  Monsieur  Clavel  ought  to  be  able  to 
say !  I  began  to  have  hideous  doubts  that  even  such 
momentous  questions  were  decided  more  by  the  tone 
in  which  one  asked  them  than  by  anything  else.  It 
was  like  doctors  and  illness.  Yet,  in  reality,  it  must 
either  be  "  yes  "  or  "  no."  I  was  a  genius  or  I  was 
not.  Certainly.  (I  avoided  my  old  tutor's  mock- 
ing eyes.)  Admitted.  But  which  .  .  . 

I  excused  myself  from  Chapel  and  went  for  a  walk 
through  the  woods.  It  was  at  three  o'clock  punctu- 
ally that  I  rang  Monsieur  Clavel's  bell.  I  had  quite 

216 


Monsieur  Clavel 


come  to  the  conclusion  by  then  that  I  must  be  a 
genius  and  that  my  paper  on  the  Plei'ade  was  one  of 
the  most  astonishing  things  ever  written.  Conse- 
quently I  was  not  in  the  least  taken  aback  at  being 
greeted  by  a  cry  of  pleasure. 

"  I  told  you,  I  told  you,"  exclaimed  Monsieur 
Clavel  excitedly  ..."  marvellous  ...  a  master 
.  .  .  you  will  go  very  far !  "  He  searched  closely 
into  my  face,  nodding  his  head  with  great  approval. 
"  Very  far,"  he  said  again. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  approve  of  it,  Monsieur 
Clavel,"  I  replied  in  a  rather  mincing  voice.  "  In 
your  opinion  what  is  best  about  it?  " 

Monsieur  Clavel  spread  out  his  hands. 

"  Ah,  it  is  the  tone,  the  manner,  the  —  how  shall 
I  call  it?  —  the  temper.  Very  fine.  So  you  are 
going  to  be  a  great  man?  This  is  a  proud  day  for 
me." 

As  I  say,  I  had  already  a  first-rate  opinion  of  my- 
self when  I  got  to  Monsieur  Clavel's  that  afternoon, 
but  the  warmth  of  his  remarks  put  me  into  the 
seventh  heaven.  I  felt  already  to  give  him  my  closest 
confidences.  I  could  hardly  conceal  my  exultation 
under  a  patronising  smile. 

"  Come,  Monsieur  Clavel,  you  will  make  me  quite 
conceited,"  I  simpered.  "  Let  us  talk  about  you  for 
a  change.  Tell  me  more  about  your  plans." 

217 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


We  were  sitting  in  his  room,  the  sun  filtering  upon 
us  through  the  Venetian  blinds. 

"  My  plans,"  cried  Monsieur  Clavel,  "  you  really 
take  interest  in  my  plans !  " 

There  was  something  touching  in  his  tone.  He 
was  looking  eagerly  at  me,  his  eyes  were  dimmed  with 
tears. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  Monsieur  Clavel,"  I  replied  in  my 
natural  voice. 

He  sighed  deeply  before  answering. 

"  You  don't  know  the  atmosphere  here,"  he  said 
at  length.  "  If  one  didn't  have  another  life  outside 
one  would  stifle  to  death.  Not  once  in  a  year  does 
any  one  speak  to  me  as  you  have  done.  You  come 
here  and  you  ask  me  about  my  plans.  You  are  not 
laughing  at  me,  I  know.  You  are  in  earnest." 

My  embarrassment  caused  me  to  murmur  some  un- 
intelligible remark. 

"  What,  and  you  have  often  thought  of  your  old 
French  master,"  he  continued  rapturously,  "  you, 
the  best  of  all  his  pupils.  This  is  what  is  balm  to 
me.  This  is  what  I  shall  never  forget.  I  came  here 
when  I  was  young  like  you,  but  I  have  grown  old, 
I  have  grown  hard,  perhaps.  I  have  had  bitter  dis- 
appointments —  why  think  of  them  ?  I  feel  that 
they  are  of  no  more  account.  Do  you  know  that  it 
is  three  years  now  since  the  greatest  happiness  of 

218 


Monsieur  Clavel 


my  life  has  begun?  It  was  at  a  time  of  sorrow." 
He  stopped  for  a  minute  to  stare  intently  at  the 
wall.  "  As  you  grow  old,"  he  added  softly,  "  you 
want  to  think  of  youth.  I  have  found  my  great 
happiness  in  my  nephew  and  niece.  They  are  wait- 
ing for  me.  Twice  a  week  I  hear  from  them.  They 
tell  me  every  detail.  I  have  only  to  shut  my  eyes 
and  I  can  see  them  sitting  under  the  cherry  trees. 
I  can  never  be  lonely  again." 

He  jumped  up  briskly  from  his  chair  and  stood 
facing  me  with  his  fat  little  legs  wide  apart  and  his 
finger  cocked. 

"  They  think  me  an  old  fool  here  but  they  forget 
that  I've  laid  my  foundations  deep,"  he  muttered 
angrily.  "  What  do  they  intend  to  do  in  the  future? 

—  they  don't  know.     Live  in  Clapham,  I  daresay. 
Clapham!     That's   your  schoolmaster  all   over!     I 

—  I  am  the  winner !  " 

He  set  about  preparing  tea  and  as  he  ran  in  and 
out  of  the  room  he  kept  referring  to  my  article.  I 
told  him  that  I  should  pay  him  a  visit  some  day  in 
his  Normandy  cottage.  He  beamed  on  me.  He  was 
extraordinarily  elated,  almost  like  a  boy  on  the  first 
morning  of  the  holidays.  Our  tea  had  the  happy 
informality  of  a  picnic.  We  laughed  and  joked, 
catching  from  each  other  the  infection  of  high  good 
humour.  When  it  began  to  get  cooler  Monsieur 
Clavel  suggested  a  stroll  and  we  sallied  forth  through 

219 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


the  Great  Gate  of  the  College.  The  sun  was  glint- 
ing low  upon  the  distant  river  and  its  long,  level 
rays  threw  a  kind  of  yellow  mist  across  the  fields. 
Monsieur  Clavel  looked  about  him  with  a  complacent 
glance.  Nature  herself  appeared  to  sympathise  with 
his  hour  of  peace.  He  recited  a  few  lines  from 
Racine  in  a  sonorous  voice.  We  reached  the  bank 
of  a  small  pond  and  sat  down  on  the  grass  and  talked 
of  old  times  and  faces.  Twilight  overtook  us  at 
last.  Away  behind  us  the  College  bell  began  to  ring 
for  evening  chapel.  Gnats  eddied  in  clouds  over  the 
pond,  bats  flitted  in  the  pale  evening  air,  and  the 
busy  hum  died  out  of  the  meadows.  With  the  fall 
of  light  Monsieur  ClavePs  thoughts  seemed  to  revert 
once  more  to  the  happy  future  that  awaited  him  so 
surely. 

"  The  ground  is  all  prepared,"  he  murmured,  "  I 
have  left  nothing  to  chance.  In  my  old  age  I  will 
live  again  in  the  lives  of  my  nephew  and  niece.  No 
more  false  hopes.  ..." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  lost  in  thought.  ..."  No 
more  false  hopes,"  he  repeated  gently,  getting  up 
and  looking  at  the  dark,  gleaming  water. 

I  had  no  words  then  to  meet  such  sentiments.  We 
walked  back  side  by  side  through  the  stillness  with-: 
out  speaking. 

("  He  has  forgotten  me  altogether,"  I  thought  to 
myself.) 

220 


Monsieur  Clavel 


I  felt  slightly  awed  as  though  in  the  presence  of 
some  grand  and  tragic  figure.  Curious  that  a  man 
so  unheroic  of  appearance  as  Monsieur  Clavel  should 
have  aroused  this  emotion  in  me.  But  the  conceit 
of  youth  hides  an  impressionable  heart. 

I  parted  from  Monsieur  Clavel  outside  the  Great 
Gate.  We  had  a  few  last  minutes  of  conversation 
and  he  told  me  again  that  I  had  "  a  great  future  — 
very  great,"  and  made  me  promise  to  come  and  see 
him  next  time  I  was  down.  He  bade  me  farewell, 
clapping  me  on  the  shoulder  and  nodding  his  head 
wisely.  But  I  could  see  that  his  mind  was  elsewhere 
—  amidst  the  trees  of  his  cherry  orchard.  I  had  an 
odd  sensation  that  I  had  found  him  only  to  lose  him 
again.  I  felt  constrained  and  was  glad  to  get 
away.  .  .  . 

I  did  not  see  Monsieur  Clavel  again  for  a  year. 
He  was  not  the  sort  of  person  one  would  exchange 
letters  with.  But  when  next  I  was  at  the  College 
I  went  to  call  on  him  at  once.  It  was  just  such 
a  Saturday  afternoon  as  before.  Again  I  walked 
across  the  empty  quadrangles  in  a  mood  of  bland 
expectancy.  For  this  time  I  carried  with  me  a 
whole  volume  of  essays  on  French  literature.  If  I 
was  hailed  as  a  genius  before,  what  now?  I  glowed 
all  over. 

As  I  reached  the  staircase  what  was  my  surprise 
and  delight  to  see  Monsieur  Clavel  going  up  in  front 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


of  me.  There  was  not  mistaking  that  back.  I 
called  out  to  him  in  glee,  "  Hulloa,  Monsieur  Clavel, 
I'm  just  coming  to  you!  " 

He  appeared  to  hesitate  as  though  uncertain 
whether  he  had  heard  a  voice  or  not,  and  then,  slowly 
turning,  he  threw  on  me  a  long,  blank  stare.  There 
was  no  recognition  in  it,  nothing  but  gloomy  indif- 
ference and  absorbed  vacancy. 

"  Monsieur  Clavel,"  I  gasped,  "  Monsieur  Clavel !  " 

He  gave  an  irritable  shake  to  his  head,  as  if  to  dis- 
pel some  unpleasant  dream,  and  without  taking  any 
more  notice  of  me  he  continued  stolidly  to  mount  the 
stairs.  I  don't  think  I  ever  experienced  a  greater 
shock.  Something  very  bad  had  evidently  hap- 
pened !  I  did  not  try  to  follow  him  but  hurried  back 
to  my  old  tutor's  house. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Monsieur  Clavel  ?  "  I 
said,  bursting  into  his  study. 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  as  though  deploring  a 
painful  subject.  There  was  just  the  very  faintest 
suggestion  of  sarcasm  in  his  pose. 

"  Melancholia,"  he  answered ;  "  a  very  sad  affair. 
He  does  no  more  work.  They  have  been  keeping 
him  out  of  pity.  Quite  hopeless.  After  this  term 
—  well,  he  will  have  to  go."  He  half -turned  away, 
his  sane,  mobile  old  face  bent  forward  as  though 
listening  politely  and  incredulously.  "  Very,  very 
sad,"  he  mumbled  in  his  beard. 

222 


Monsieur  Clavel 


"  But  why  ?  "  I  cried  impetuously.  "  Is  it  recent  ? 
Why  has  he  become  like  this  ?  " 

The  old  man  shuffled  uneasily  in  his  seat. 

"  He  was  an  idealist,"  he  said  wearily.  "  He  made 
plans  and  they  came  to  nothing.  That  is  all." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  something  happened  to  his 
nephew  and  niece  ?  "  I  almost  shouted. 

The  flicker  of  a  smile  passed  over  his  face. 

"  Yes,  they  both  married,"  he  answered  drily. 

It  was  as  if  a  thunder  clap  had  sounded  in  my 
ear.  After  a  moment  of  insane  staring  I  burst  out 
laughing. 

"  Married  —  why,  of  course !  What  more  natu- 
ral," I  stammered.  "  Then  his  foundations  were  in 
the  sand  after  all." 

My  former  tutor  regarded  me  with  grim  disap- 
proval. I  went  up  to  my  room  and  in  another  hour 
had  left  the  College. 

I  will  confess  that  this  affair  upset  me  very  much. 
It  was  too  painful,  too  painful  altogether.  Indeed,, 
it  was  an  actual  relief  when,  only  a  few  weeks  after- 
wards, I  heard  that  Monsieur  Clavel  was  no  more. 

"  I  am  writing  to  you,"  wrote  my  old  house- 
master, "  because  you  were  always  interested  in  Mon- 
sieur Clavel.  He  is  dead.  He  went  out  like  a 
candle,  slowly  flickering,  without  a  struggle.  Poor 
old  man!  I  am  told  that  he  had  begun  to  weep  a 
great  deal  and  to  talk  once  more  of  Guadeloupe  as 

223 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


though  he  might  find  happiness  there  after  all.  He 
seemed  to  recognise  no  one.  It  is  very  pitiful. 
They  say  he  had  given  all  he  had  to  his  nephew  and 
niece.  They  have  not  been  communicated  with  be- 
cause nobody  knows  their  address.  He  is  to  have  a 
fine  funeral.  I  shall  not  attend  as  I  am  getting  too 
old.  Besides,  what  is  the  use?  I  shall  wait  till  I 
play  a  more  important  part  —  it  won't  be 
long.  .  .  .» 

When  I  got  this  letter  I  half-thought  of  going  my- 
self. But,  after  all,  I  didn't.  It  really  did  seem  too 
ironical.  What  a  finish  for  an  idealist ! 


DEEP  DOWN 


DEEP  DOWN 

ON  the  first  day  of  the  term  Mr.  Burgess, 
the  new  master,  took  the  boys  a  walk  they 
had  never  been  before.  About  a  mile 
from  home  they  suddenly  left  the  road  and  skirted 
along  the  side  of  a  big  field  by  a  muddy  footpath. 

"  We'll  see  where  it  leads  to,"  said  Mr.  Burgess, 
who  felt  that  he  ought  to  do  something  to  break  the 
universal  air  of  gloom. 

The  small  boys,  who  had  been  walking  alongside 
of  him  in  a  despondent  cluster,  visibly  brightened. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  said  Mr.  Burgess  heartily ; 
"  we'll  go  on  a  voyage  of  discovery.  I  haven't  the 
least  idea  where  it  will  take  us." 

Nobody  said  a  word,  though  everybody  except  the 
new  master,  knew  exactly  where  it  would  take  them. 
It  would  take  them  right  to  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel 
and  then  along  the  edge  of  the  cutting  to  Dakin's 
Farm,  and  so  out  to  the  Well  Road.  They  knew  it, 
not  because  they  had  ever  been  there,  but  because, 
being  a  notoriously  forbidden  place  for  a  walk,  its 
every  feature  was  a  sort  of  school  tradition.  Old 
Glossop  would  no  more  have  allowed  a  master  to 
take  boys  along  that  path  than  he  would  have  al- 

227 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


lowed  him  to  give  them  cigarettes.  That  was  a  com- 
monplace; and  yet  here  was  one  of  them  doing  it  on 
the  very  first  day !  The  boys  looked  at  one  another 
and  at  Burgess  with  a  fearful  joy.  "  He's  forgotten 
to  tell  him,"  ran  from  mouth  to  mouth.  It  was  true : 
he  had  forgotten  to  tell  him.  The  excellent  Mr. 
Burgess  was  striding  ahead  with  as  clear  a  con- 
science as  though  he  were  still  upon  the  dreary  high 
road. 

He  was  an  eccentric  man,  rather  kind,  who  re- 
garded boys  as  inhuman,  and  whose  only  interest  in 
life  was  the  study  of  the  Patristic  writings.  He 
had  been  engaged  for  years  upon  a  commentary  on 
the  Fathers  which  was  to  astonish  the  theologians 
and  scholars  of  Europe.  He  considered  school- 
mastering,  into  which  he  had  been  driven  by  poverty, 
as  a  bore,  and  he  tried  to  get  through  the  terms  with 
as  little  worry  to  himself  as  possible.  Indeed,  he 
lived  in  a  world  of  his  own  and  was  seldom  properly 
aware  of  what  was  going  on  around  him.  That  was 
why  headmasters  did  not  care  to  keep  him  for  long, 
and  why  he  had  drifted  from  one  small  preparatory 
school  to  another  during  the  last  seventeen  years. 
He  was  invariably  popular  with  boys  because  he  in- 
terfered little  with  them  and  because  he  used,  now  and 
then,  to  tell  them  stories  about  marvellous  fish  he 
had  caught  in  Tasmania  —  where  he  had  once  lived 
for  a  short  time  on  account  of  his  lungs. 

228 


Deep  Down 

"  Now  then,  boys,  hurry  up,"  he  cried,  Jooking 
round  and  beckoning  to  the  stragglers. 

The  thirty  small  boys  or  so  who  had  been  hanging 
back,  whispering  excitedly,  quickened  their  steps, 
and  the  whole  party  began  to  trudge  along  the  nar- 
row path.  Mr.  Burgess  walked  silently,  with  down- 
cast eyes,  not  looking  where  he  was  going,  lost  in 
an  abstruse  point  of  early  Christian  theology.  At 
such  moments  he  seemed  to  feel  himself  present  at 
one  of  the  great  councils,  and  would,  as  it  were,  take 
sides,  sometimes  even  aloud.  Suddenly  he  was 
startled  out  of  his  reverie  by  hearing  a  voice  at  his 
elbow  say,  "  Look,  sir,  there's  the  railway." 

Mr.  Burgess  sighed.  The  splendid  phantom  of 
the  past  dissolved  like  a  breath,  and,  slowly  raising 
his  eyes,  he  stared  at  the  speaker. 

"  What  is  it,  my  boy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It's  the  railway,  sir,"  answered  half  a  dozen 
voices. 

And  sure  enough  the  path  had  led  them  almost  up 
to  the  edge  of  a  deep  cutting,  just  at  the  point 
where  a  tunnel  emerged  from  under  the  rise.  The 
boys  ran  forward  to  gaze  down  at  the  black  mouth 
of  the  tunnel. 

"  Isn't  it  fine,  sir?  "  said  one  of  them  to  Burgess, 
who  had  come  up. 

But  Mr.  Burgess  was  irritated. 

"  None  of  that !  "  he  shouted  angrily.  "  Don't  let 
229 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


me  catch  any  of  you  loitering  again.     Under  no  con- 
sideration must  you  leave  the  path." 

"  But  there's  a  train  coming,  sir ;  we  can  hear  it," 
urged  one  of  the  boys,  as  if  this  were  a  quite  irre- 
sistible explanation. 

He  looked  so  extremely  earnest  that  Mr.  Burgess 
laughed. 

"  Well,  just  for  this  once,"  he  said  good-humour- 
edly. 

He  shivered.  It  was  one  of  those  chill,  damp,  and 
windless  afternoons  of  late  January  when  the  very 
sky  looks  sodden  and  little  twigs  can  be  heard  snap- 
ping in  every  copse.  Before  him  the  row  of  boys 
stood  motionless  with  craning  necks;  overhead  the 
rooks  were  flying  stealthily  homewards  one  by  one, 
and  all  around  the  bare  fields  stretched  like  an  ocean 
of  brown  mud.  The  cutting,  which  lay  across  them, 
resembled  a  clean  slice  carved  out  of  the  earth  by  a 
gigantic  knife.  It  had  a  repugnant  and  desolate 
appearance.  The  rank  grass  upon  its  slopes  was  all 
wet  and  withered,  a  smell  of  decay  and  vitiated  air 
hung  over  it,  and  a  steamy  mist  was  rising  from  the 
bottom.  Down  there  darkness  was  gathering  very 
fast.  The  sound  of  dripping  could  be  heard  from  a 
hundred  directions. 

Mr.  Burgess  took  in  the  whole  landscape  at  a 
glance. 

230 


Deep  Down 

"  I  don't  hear  any  train,"  he  said  all  at  once ; 
"  really,  I  think  we  had  better  be  going  on." 

"  Listen,  sir;  there  it  is,"  said  a  boy. 

He  heard  it  then,  a  strangled  sound  deep  within 
the  hill  like  a  monster  roaring  in  a  cave.  A  shudder 
of  delight  passed  over  the  row  of  heads. 

"  It's  coming  nearer,  sir,"  gasped  some  one. 

And  suddenly  there  rushed  out  of  the  tunnel  an 
engine  dragging  a  long  string  of  open  wagons.  The 
boys  shouted  with  glee,  and  the  echo  of  the  passing 
train  clashed  from  side  to  side  of  the  cutting,  with  its 
thunderous  repetitions  dying  away  right  down  the 
line.  No  one  moved  for  a  minute.  Smoke  was  coil- 
ing out  of  the  tunnel,  blurring  the  sombre  outlines 
of  the  hollow  and  clinging  to  the  grimy  archway 
above. 

"  We  can't  stand  here  all  night,"  said  Mr.  Burgess 
at  length;  "  come  along,  boys." 

They  followed  him  —  all  except  one.  Gilbert,  the 
biggest  boy  in  the  school,  had  remained  behind  gaz- 
ing down  at  the  tunnel.  But  Mr.  Burgess,  who  was 
beginning  to  slip  back  into  another  age,  did  not 
notice  his  absence.  He  heard  a  lot  of  small  boys 
chattering  round  him,  and  he  smiled  instinctively. 
It  made  a  not  unpleasant  chorus  —  muffled,  dream- 
like —  to  a  strange  argument  he  was  having  with  the 
Bishop  of  Hippo.  The  question  turned  on  whether 

231 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


children  who  died  in  infancy  could  be  saved  without 
baptism.  "  Pelagius  was  right,"  mumbled  Burgess ; 
*'  there  is  no  heresy  in  his  doctrine.  Augustine,  if  I 
could  but  meet  you  upon  your  own  burning  African 
sands !  You  call  yourself  orthodox,  but  it  is  a  vain 
delusion  because,  in  your  pride,  you  forgot  that 
Christ  alone  is  the  Fountain-head.  I  see  you  start. 
But  what  did  Christ  say :  *  Suffer  little  children, 
and  forbid  them  not,  to  come  unto  Me :  for  of  such  is 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.'  Your  lips  move.  Ah, 
serpent,  I  know  your  wiles !  You  whisper,  *  He  that 
believeth  in  Me  and  is  baptised  shall  be  saved.'  Yes ; 
they  are  are  Christ's  words,  but  they  are  metaphor- 
ical. For  how  does  the  sentence  end :  '  But  he  that 
believeth  not  shall  be  damned.'  There  is  no  word 
here  of  baptism.  Christ  most  manifestly  meant  by 
baptism  the  putting-on  of  a  new  spirit :  *  Except  a 
man  be  born  again  he  cannot  enter  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven.'  Born  again  —  do  you  hear?  He  must 
recover  the  lost  innocence  of  his  childhood  through 
the  grace  and  mercy  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Lis- 
ten, O  learned  one.  Mankind  is  vile,  but  his  villainy 
is  instilled  into  him  afresh  in  each  generation  by  the 
machinations  of  the  sleepless  Devil.  It  is  not  inher- 
ent in  his  nature.  Do  not  Christ's  own  words  hint 
at  this  great  truth?  The  bull,  Ineffabttis  Dens,  was 
unnecessary,  for  original  sin  is  a  mere  figment. 
Moreover,  it  arises  from  the  errors  of  the  Apostles, 

232 


Deep  Down 

of  Justin  Martyr,  and  of  Tertullian,  who  were  unable 
to  comprehend  the  verbal  images  of  our  Master. 
No ;  throughout  His  earthly  life  Christ  was  ever  call- 
ing upon  us  to  make  our  hearts  even  as  the  heart  of 
a  child.  Now,  therefore,  if  He  did  not  reject  upon 
earth,  but  called  to  Him,  the  unbaptised  children  of 
Galilee,  how  gladly  will  He  welcome  all  His  children 
to  His  Eternal  Mansions!  You  sneer.  I  care  not, 
scoffer  I  But  remember  that  there  is  more  pleasure 
in  heaven  over  one  repentant  sinner  than  over 
ninety  and  nine  just  persons  that  need  no  re- 
pentance. There  is  divine  irony  in  that  sentence, 
O  Bishop.  It  is  as  much  Christ's  judgment  upon 
the  formalist  as  upon  the  Pharisee.  A  pure  and 
contrite  heart  is  more  to  Him  than  a  sea  of  in- 
cense. Out  upon  you !  It  is  you  —  you,  Augustine 
—  who  are  heretical,  and  with  you  the  whole  Catholic 
Church." 

He  rubbed  his  hands,  walking  with  rapid  strides 
along  the  path.  The  boys,  almost  running  to  keep 
pace  with  him,  were  astonished  to  see  the  smiles  and 
frowns  come  and  go  on  his  face.  They  nudged  one 
another.  Unlike  Burgess,  they  knew  that  Gilbert 
had  stayed  behind;  but,  also  unlike  Burgess,  it  was 
not  their  business.  He  could  hear  just  as  well  as 
they  could  —  besides,  Gilbert  was  Gilbert!  There 
was  no  accounting  for  him.  They  turned,  they  saw 
him  standing  there  by  the  edge,  and  they  merely 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


shrugged  their  shoulders.  After  all,  it  was  Gilbert 
—  the  strongest  boy  in  the  school,  who  had  once 
kicked  a  goal  from  nearly  half-way,  who  never  took 
sides,  who  was  always  quite  uninterested  about  every- 
thing; who  was,  in  fact,  entirely  mad,  and  who  in- 
variably insisted  on  walking  by  himself  far  behind 
every  one  else. 

"  I  bet  you  he's  waiting  till  we  get  on  a  bit,"  said 
presently  a  small  boy  called  Simpson  to  his  friend 
Butterworth. 

"  I  know  that,"  snapped  his  companion,  and  they 
relapsed  into  silence. 

The  other  boys,  in  the  interest  of  watching  the  new 
master,  had  soon  forgotten  all  about  Gilbert;  but 
Simpson  and  Butterworth  were  still  thinking  of  him. 
He  was  their  hero.  They  never  discussed  him  openly, 
but  each  knew  that  the  other  considered  him  the  most 
wonderful  person  in  the  world.  That  was  why,  on 
walks,  they  tried  to  keep  behind  in  the  hopes  that 
one  day  Gilbert  would  notice  them  and  would  let  them 
accompany  him.  So  far  it  had  been  completely  un- 
successful, but  it  made  no  difference.  So  now  grad- 
ually they  found  themselves  falling  back.  Without 
saying  a  word  to  one  another  it  occurred  to  them 
both  to  watch  what  Gilbert  would  do.  The  rest  of 
the  school  had  passed  the  corner  by  Dakin's  Farm 
and  were  out  of  sight.  Simpson  and  Butterworth 
suddenly  stopped,  turned  round,  and  uttered  at  the 

234? 


Deep  Down 

very  same  instant  a  sort  of  stifled  exclamation.  Gil- 
bert had  disappeared !  .  .  . 

Alone  of  all  the  boys  in  the  school  Gilbert  had  felt 
no  particular  exultation  when  Burgess  led  them  on 
to  the  forbidden  path.  He  was  sunk  in  gloom  at  the 
memory  of  the  holidays  now  so  fatally  over,  and  he 
followed  the  others  mechanically.  He  did  not  like 
school.  It  worried  him;  worried  him  perpetually. 
But  he  loved  his  old  home  in  the  Lincoln  fens  with  a 
passionate  love.  If  Burgess  regarded  terms  as  a 
bore,  Gilbert  regarded  them  as  a  nightmare.  Be- 
tween these  so  dissimilar  natures  there  was  this  un- 
guessed  bond  of  an  inner  and  secret  life.  They  were 
true  egoists.  They  lived  for  an  idea  that  was  the 
expression  of  a  personal  want. 

Gilbert,  behind  the  rest,  padded  along  like  a  tired 
old  dog,  with  head  bent  and  a  look  of  profound  mis- 
ery on  his  face.  "  If  only  I  were  back  at  home,"  he 
kept  thinking  bitterly.  All  at  once  he  noticed  that 
the  other  boys  had  stopped  and  were  staring  down 
over  the  bank  of  the  cutting.  Gilbert  stared  too,  not 
because  he  felt  interested,  but  because  every  one  else 
was  doing  it.  He  saw  beneath  him  two  sets  of  rail- 
way lines  glistening  like  the  trail  of  slugs  after  a 
shower,  and  the  great  black  mouth  of  a  tunnel  yawn- 
ing at  him  in  the  dusk.  It  was  all  very  tremendous. 
And  suddenly  he  thought  with  fear,  "  Suppose  I  saw. 
some  one  standing  down  there."  Maybe  he  had 

235 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


heard  the  sound  of  the  approaching  train.  Who  can 
say?  As  soon  as  it  had  passed  he  looked  again  at 
the  tunnel.  "  Yes ;  and  suppose  a  train  had  been 
coming,"  he  added  to  himself  very  slowly. 

He  did  not  notice  the  departure  of  the  other  boys. 
For  several  minutes  afterwards  he  remained  there, 
quite  motionless,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  tunnel,  like  a 
person  deep  in  thought.  As  a  matter  of  fact  only 
one  thing  filled  his  mind;  one  thing  which,  in  a  mo- 
ment, had  driven  everything  else  out,  and  that  was  a 
strange  sensation.  It  was  as  though  the  whole  world 
had  dwindled  and  the  single  real  thing  in  the  universe 
was  that  cavernous  mouth.  He  started  suddenly  and 
gazed  round  at  the  ploughed  fields.  They  appeared 
insignificant,  veiled,  part  of  another  life.  It  was  a 
weird  effect,  but  it  did  not  surprise  him  somehow,  and 
as  he  turned  his  eyes  once  more  on  the  tunnel  it 
seemed  to  him  that  only  there,  there  in  the  hollow, 
was  there  anything  real.  Without  thinking  what  he 
was  about,  he  took  a  few  steps  down  the  slippery 
zigzag  path. 

He  was  startled  at  hearing  above  his  head  a  loud 
cry.  "  What  am  I  doing  here?  "  he  thought  instan- 
taneously, and,  looking  up,  he  saw  two  small  boys 
bending  over  the  cutting.  "  Why,  it's  these  kids !  " 
he  muttered  in  an  astonished  voice. 

"  Who  are  you  shouting  at  ?  "  he  cried  back,  and 
he  began  to  clamber  up  the  bank. 

236 


Deep  Down 

Simpson  and  Butterworth  regarded  him  in  con- 
fusion. 

"  We  —  we  thought  we'd  tell  you,"  blurted  the  lat- 
ter ;  "  you  know  every  one's  miles  ahead.  We'll  get 
into  an  awful  row.  What  were  you  doing?  "  he 
added  hurriedly. 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  me,"  answered  Gilbert.  "  Come 
on,  let's  run  for  it." 

Simpson  and  Butterworth  swelled  with  pride. 
Fancy,  running  with  Gilbert!  The  whole  school 
would  see  them ! 

The  three  of  them  began  to  race  along  the  path. 
They  overtook  the  others  just  as  they  were  emerging 
on  to  the  Well  Road.  Luckily  for  them  Mr.  Burgess 
was  still  buried  in  the  abstruser  phases  of  his  imagin- 
ary duologue,  and  their  absence  had  not  been  officially 
noticed. 

Simpson  and  Butterworth  smiled  with  content  at 
the  inquisitive  glances  cast  on  them  by  the  others; 
but,  as  for  Gilbert,  he  looked  more  dismal  than  ever. 
What  on  earth  had  happened  to  him?  Something 
beastly !  He  thought  of  his  home,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  as  though  a  slight  mist  had  risen  over  it,  and  as 
though  it  had  receded  very  far.  It  filled  him  with 
grief.  Never  before  had  he  felt  such  utter,  cold  de- 
spair ;  and  the  image  of  the  cutting  rose  up,  immense, 
significant,  very  silent.  "  I'm  glad  I  saw  no  one," 
he  muttered. 

237 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


That  night  he  had  a  sinister  dream.  It  was  like 
this :  He  seemed  to  be  standing  upon  the  top  of  the 
cutting  once  more,  gazing  down  almost  with  anguish 
at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel.  He  didn't  know  why  he 
felt  such  anguish,  because  it  was  all  just  as  he  had 
seen  it  that  afternoon.  And  yet,  surely,  it  was  not 
quite  the  same.  The  hollow,  instead  of  being  dark, 
was  filled  with  a  subdued  light.  He  could  make  out 
every  little  detail  quite  plainly.  And  this  was  the 
more  remarkable  as  up  above  the  earth  was  in  pitchy 
blackness.  Yes ;  he  could  see  every  detail,  and  all  was 
as  he  had  expected.  All?  Why,  then,  did  he  feel 
such  anguish?  He  couldn't  have  said,  but  he  kept 
peering  down  as  if  there  was  still  something  to  be 
made  out.  And  all  at  once,  as  he  looked,  he  saw  the 
figure  of  a  youth  standing  by  the  tunnel.  He  could 
have  sworn  that  it  had  not  been  there  a  moment  since, 
but  he  was  not  astonished.  The  youth  was  bending 
forward,  gazing  in  at  the  mouth.  He  stood  very 
still.  He  was  listening.  And  Gilbert  himself  was 
also  listening.  "  The  train  is  coming,"  he  thought. 
He  would  like  to  have  shouted,  but  he  was  unable  to. 
And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  knew  the  fig- 
ure —  it  was  himself.  Again  he  was  horrified,  but 
not  astonished.  He  thought  quick  as  lightning. 
"  When  the  train  comes  he  will  lie  down."  Ah !  he 
must  give  a  shout.  He  made  a  tremendous  effort, 
and  suddenly  his  lips  were  unloosed  and  he  uttered  a 

238 


Deep  Down 

cry.  It  woke  him.  He  sat  up  in  bed,  trembling  all 
over.  He  rubed  his  eyes.  "Was  I  dreaming?  "  he 
muttered.  Then  he  did  a  singular  thing.  He  got 
out  of  bed  and  slipped  into  his  clothes.  He  knew 
that  he  must  go  at  once  to  the  tunnel.  He  didn't 
argue  about  it  —  it  was  impossible  to  resist.  He 
had  never  broken  bounds  before.  No  matter.  It 
was  quite  simple.  Nothing  easier.  He  would  be 
there  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  .  .  . 

There  were  ten  boys  in  Gilbert's  dormitory,  but 
only  one  of  them  had  been  awakened  by  the  cry  of 
the  dreamer.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  lowered  gas- 
jet  Simpson  saw  his  hero  sit  up,  get  out  of  bed,  and 
begin  to  dress.  Finally  he  saw  him  go  softly  out  of 
the  room  carrying  his  shoes.  He  cautiously  woke 
Butterworth,  who  slept  in  the  next  bed,  and  the  two 
small  boys  remained  whispering  for  nearly  an  hour 
and  a  half.  At  the  end  of  that  time  Gilbert  re- 
turned and  got  back  into  bed.  It  was  yet  a  long 
time  till  dawn.  In  the  morning  Simpson  and  But- 
terworth avoided  speaking  of  the  subject.  Each 
had  determined,  however,  that  he  would  be  awake 
on  the  following  night.  .  .  . 

Gilbert  had  found  no  difficulty  in  escaping  from 
the  school.  He  had  run  the  whole  way  to  the  cut- 
ting. In  the  disordered  state  of  his  mind  he  felt  no 
fear  of  detection,  no  guilt,  nothing  but  an  over- 
powering impulse.  The  moon  was  at  the  full,  and  its 

239 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


pale  light  glowed  upon  the  desolate  scene.  All  was 
silent.  Gilbert  did  not  hesitate.  He  ran  sideways 
down  the  path  on  to  the  line.  And  he  stood  there, 
bending  forward,  looking  into  the  black  abyss  of  the 
tunnel.  It  was  frightfully  thrilling.  And  down 
there  the  dripping  sounded  louder,  seemed  to  fill  the 
dark  air  with  a  thousand  murmurs.  And  on  each 
side  the  steep  banks  towered  like  solid  walls,  high  as 
the  heavens,  shutting  out  the  world  and  everything 
he  knew;  shutting  out  his  home  on  the  fens,  the  fa- 
miliar faces,  the  very  emotions  of  joy  and  gladness. 
Yes,  it  was  frightfully  thrilling.  Suddenly  he  heard, 
far  off  in  the  tunnel,  the  rumble  of  a  train.  He  lay 
down  flat  between  the  rails.  And  without  stirring, 
hardly  able  to  breathe,  he  allowed  the  train  to  pass 
over  him.  At  last  he  got  up.  "  I  dared  to  do  it," 
he  thought  deliriously.  And  before  him  all  his  past 
life  seemed  to  crumble,  blurred  and  indistinct  as  an 
old  memory.  .  .  . 

The  next  afternoon  Mr.  Burgess,  still  unwarned 
by  the  forgetful  Glossop,  took  the  boys  for  the  same 
walk.  He  realised  that  it  had  been  a  success. 
"  But,"  said  he,  "  there  will  be  no  loitering  to-day, 
and  no  stopping  to  see  trains  or  things  of  that  sort. 
You  understand?  " 

Simpson  and  Butterworth  threw  a  rapid  glance  at 
Gilbert,  who  was  standing  in  the  rear,  taking  no  no- 
tice of  anything.  All  the  other  boys  declared  in  a 

240 


Deep  Down 

loud  voice  that  they  understood  perfectly.  Mr. 
Burgess  smiled  benignly  on  them.  He  foresaw  that 
this  school  was  going  to  be  a  sort  of  haven  to  him. 
Such  an  idea  charmed  his  fancy.  For  he  was  wres- 
tling just  now  with  an  important  chapter,  and,  of  all 
things,  he  needed  peace  of  mind.  He  was  greatly 
put  out  therefore  when,  after  having  negotiated  the 
danger  spot  of  the  cutting  without  any  bother,  he 
found,  simply  by  the  chance  of  turning  his  head,  that 
one  boy  had  not  obeyed  his  command.  They  were  at 
least  a  hundred  yards  past  the  tunnel  when  he  made 
this  discovery. 

"  Who's  that  boy  ?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

"  Gilbert,  sir,"  answered  a  score  of  voices. 

For  a  few  seconds  the  whole  school,  with  Mr.  Bur- 
gess in  their  midst,  started  at  the  motionless,  bent 
figure  of  the  absorbed  Gilbert.  "  What's  the  boy  up 
to?  "  muttered  Mr.  Burgess  to  himself.  He  felt,  un- 
interested though  he  was  in  the  psychology  of  boys, 
quite  uneasy  at  that  appearance  of  strained  immo- 
bility. And  aloud  to  the  school  he  added,  "  You  all 
wait  here  —  I'll  go  and  fetch  him  myself."  He  went 
hastily  back.  Gilbert  did  not  hear  him  coming  — 
he  was  as  truly  in  another  world  as  was  Burgess  when 
he  used  to  imagine  himself  at  the  Council  of  Nicaea. 

"  Look  here,  didn't  I  say  there  was  to  be  no  loiter- 
ing? "  said  Mr.  Burgess  gruffly,  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

241 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


The  boy  turned  and  gave  him  a  stare. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Come,  my  boy,  this  won't  do,"  continued  the  mas- 
ter ;  "  if  you  heard  me  you  should  have  obeyed  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Gilbert  again. 

Mr.  Burgess  looked  at  him.  Certainly  an  odd 
type! 

"  Your  name's  Gilbert,  isn't  it? "  he  inquired. 
The  other  nodded.  "  Well,  remember,  Gilbert,  if  I 
catch  you  disobeying  me  again  it'll  be  the  worse  for 
you.  Is  that  plain  enough?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  repeated  Gilbert  once  more. 

Mr.  Burgess  was  fidgeted  by  the  meek  and,  so  to 
say,  impersonal  behaviour  of  the  boy. 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  he  went  on,  "  but  any  one 
can  say,  *  Yes,  sir,'  when  they've  been  found  out. 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  why  did  you  stay  behind  ?  " 

Gilbert  looked  sheepishly  at  him. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  he  replied  at  length. 

"  Don't  prevaricate,  my  boy.  It's  a  thing  I  dis- 
like. I  repeat,  why  did  you  stay  behind?  " 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  he  saw  suddenly 
upon  the  boy's  face  a  strange  look,  a  look  of  suppli- 
cation and  of  despair. 

"  All  right,  I  won't  go  into  it  just  now,"  he  added 
quickly ;  "  but  come  to  my  room  this  evening  after 
prayers.  We  can  thrash  it  out  there." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  answered  Gilbert  with  reluc- 


Deep  Down 

tance,  and  the  two  of  them  rejoined  the  wondering 
school.  .  .  . 

Although  Simpson  and  Butterworth  had  been,  of 
course,  quite  unable  to  hear  a  word  of  what  had  been 
said,  they  had  watched  the  whole  scene  with  intense 
interest.  Like  most  small  boys  they  could  hide  much 
cunning  under  an  air  of  utter  indifference.  Without 
ever  mutally  hinting  at  such  a  thing,  both  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  Gilbert's  behaviour  in  the 
night  had  had  something  to  do  with  the  tunnel ;  and 
now,  again,  they  saw  another  phase  of  the  same  thing 
opening  from  this  conversation  with  the  schoolmas- 
ter. Both  resolved  that  nothing  should  escape  them. 
After  prayers  that  night  they  saw  Gilbert  go  off 
towards  Mr.  Burgess's  room,  and  they  realised  at 
once  that  here  was  still  a  further  link  of  the  chain. 
They  waited  impatiently  for  developments.  .  .  . 

When  Gilbert  entered  Mr.  Burgess's  room  he 
found  him  studying  a  big  Latin  book.  It  was  a  vol- 
ume of  Tyrannius  Rufinus.  The  master  looked  up, 
nodded  to  the  boy  to  be  seated,  and  continued  to  read. 
He  was  lost  in  the  arid  pages  of  the  "  De  Adultera- 
toine  Librorum  Origenis."  He  felt  sympathy  for 
Rufinus  in  his  attack  upon  the  famous  Origen. 
"  Yes,'*  he  thought,  "  the  Pope  himself  condemned 
Origen.  The  devout  Anastasius  was  not  likely  to 
err.  And  even  Jerome  turned  from  his  writings  at 
last.  But  the  glamour  of  great  reputations  has  in- 

243 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


variably  been  fatal.  The  name  of  Origen  was  all- 
powerful  to  the  Christians  of  those  days.  Men  like 
Rufinus,  the  reformers  of  abuses,  run  their  heads 
against  the  eternal  snobbishness  of  the  world.  They 
are  the  true  conservatives.  The  suspicions  of  the 
Orthodox  in  every  age  are  the  mere  reflection  of  their 
cowardice.  What  could  be  more  absurd  than  to 
question  the  fundamental  Tightness  of  this  saintly 
Father?  " 

He  suddenly  glanced  up,  saw  Gilbert  there  before 
him,  and  remembered  everything.  He  closed  the 
book  with  a  sigh.  More  trouble!  He  should  never 
have  ordered  the  boy  to  come.  He  had  done  it  in  a 
moment  of  curiosity,  but  he  repented  it.  The  whole 
episode  jarred  on  him. 

"  So  here  you  are,"  he  began  awkwardly. 

"  You  said  I  was  to  come,  sir,"  muttered  Gilbert. 

"  Let  me  see  —  what  was  it  ?  Oh,  about  this  aft- 
ernoon. Well,  what  have  you  to  say?  " 

Gilbert  shuffled  his  feet. 

"  What  I  mean  is,  have  you  anything  to  say  ?  " 
continued  the  master  kindly.  "  Are  you  unhappy 
about  anything?  " 

Gilbert  bit  his  lips  and  frowned. 

"  No ;  I  won't  ask  you  if  you  are  unhappy,"  said 
the  other,  looking  closely  at  Gilbert,  "  but  I'll  ask 
you  why  you're  unhappy.  Is  it  home-sickness?  I 
used  to  be  like  that." 

244 


Deep  Down 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  wish  it  was !  "  burst  from  the  boy. 

Mr.  Burgess  raised  his  eyebrows  in  astonishment. 

"  That's  a  very  odd  remark,"  he  observed. 

"  Is  it,  sir?  "  replied  Gilbert  bleakly. 

"  Very  odd.  You  should  explain  yourself.  For 
instance,  what  was  it  made  you  stay  behind  this  aft- 
ernoon? " 

"  I  was  looking  at  the  tunnel,  sir." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know.  But  what's  the  matter? 
What's  worrying  you?  You  can  speak  to  me  quite 
frankly." 

"  I  feel  that  everything's  changed,  sir,"  said  Gil- 
bert almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

Mr.  Burgess  made  a  gesture  of  hopelessness.  At 
the  same  time  he  felt  there  was  something  here  it  was 
his  duty  to  investigate. 

"  And  certainly  /  don't,"  he  responded  testily. 
"  Can't  you  tell  me  in  plain  English?  "  But  seeing 
once  more  upon  the  boy's  face  a  look  of  terror  and 
supplication,  he  added  in  a  friendly  voice,  "  I  prom- 
ise to  help  you  if  I  can." 

Gilbert,  for  the  first  time  that  day,  felt  a  tinge  of 
human  warmth  about  his  heart.  Dare  he  confide  in 
him  and  could  he  ever  make  him  understand?  He 
rose  from  his  chair  and  came  right  up  to  where  Mr. 
Burgess  was  sitting. 

245 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  I  feel  that  I've  lost  everything  I  cared  for,  and 
—  and  I  don't  know  whether  I  mind,"  he  stammered. 

"  Sit  down  and  tell  me  all,"  said  Mr.  Burgess  in  a 
firm  voice. 

And,  at  length,  in  broken  sentences,  Gilbert  told 
him  his  trouble.  He  told  it  with  such  vehemence 
that  his  listener  could  feel  the  stir  of  his  mixed  and 
passionate  emotions  like  invisible  tentacles  touching 
him  all  over  his  face.  But  there  was  one  point  — 
the  most  important  of  all  —  on  which  Gilbert  was 
silent.  He  said  nothing  about  his  midnight  adven- 
ture. It  simply  would  not  pass  his  lips  —  and, 
think,  think,  suppose  he  wanted  to  go  again!  Ah! 
cursed  thought  —  but  how  could  he  be  sure,  how 
could  he  see  clearly  ? 

Mr.  Burgess  listened  without  saying  a  word.  He 
would  like  to  have  been  able  to  laugh  at  that  gro- 
tesque recital,  but  he  did  not  feel  at  all  like  laughing. 
"  It's  a  regular  story  from  the  Thebai'd,"  he  said  to 
himself.  And  yet  what  was  there  really  in  it  all? 
Nothing !  The  silly  fancies  of  a  nervous  boy  !  Why 
had  he  ever  been  such  a  fool  as  to  bother  about  him  ? 
But  he  needed  his  help  —  he  had  promised  it.  Be- 
sides, he  needed  it. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Gilbert,"  he  said  in  a  confi- 
dential voice,  "  you've  got  too  vivid  an  imagination. 
I'm  very  glad  you  spoke  to  me.  You'll  find  that  once 
having  shared  this  with  some  one  else  it'll  all  melt. 

246 


Deep  Down 

Don't  let  things  like  that  weigh  on  your  mind.  Your 
feelings  will  take  care  of  themselves.  Just  go  on 
with  your  life  as  usual.  There's  nothing  really  the 
matter.  And  now,  my  boy,  we  won't  talk  any  more 
about  it.  That's  much  the  best." 

He  got  up,  smiling,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Gil- 
bert. 

"  Good-night,  and  remember  I  understand,"  he  said 
cordially. 

Gilbert  went  out  of  the  room,  concealing  his  de- 
jection as  well  as  he  could.  The  master's  words,  so 
blind  to  all  the  subtle  agony  and  indecision  of  his 
heart,  had  only  deepened  around  him  his  sense  of 
dreadful  isolation.  .  .  . 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  Simpson  and  Butter- 
worth,  watching  breathlessly,  saw  Gilbert  rise,  dress, 
and  leave  the  room.  No  sooner  had  he  gone  than,  in 
a  twinkling,  they,  too,  had  risen,  thrown  on  coats 
and  trousers,  and  run  after  him.  All  was  quiet  in 
the  house  of  the  respected  Mr.  Glossop.  Shadows 
could  hardly  have  made  less  sound  than  did  the  three 
boys;  and,  indeed,  they  resembled  shadows  as  they 
flitted  out  into  the  moonlight,  one  ahead,  two  behind, 
and  all  running  under  the  lee  of  the  house.  Gilbert 
made  straight  for  the  cutting,  and  the  two  small 
boys,  from  a  distance,  saw  him  turn  the  corner  of  the 
field  into  the  muddy  path.  When  they  reached  the 
embankment  he  was  not  to  be  seen. 

247 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  Down  there !  "  whispered  Simpson. 

"  Yes;  look  at  him,  look  at  him!"  exclaimed  But- 
terworth. 

He  was  standing  on  the  line,  very  close  to  the  tun- 
nel, and  staring  into  it.  All  at  once  they  saw  him 
take  a  step  forward  and  disappear  within  its  mouth. 

Simpson  and  Butterworth  did  not  wait  for  any- 
thing more.  They  were  frightened.  They  turned 
and  ran  homewards  as  fast  as  they  could.  .  .  . 

Gilbert  had  left  the  presence  of  the  schoolmaster 
feeling  not  only  isolated  from  all  the  world,  but  very 
unwell.  A  strange,  gnawing  pain  was  beginning  to 
stir  in  his  mind.  He  did  not  try  to  analyse  it.  He 
had  only  one  wish,  and  that  was  to  fall  asleep  and 
not  to  wake  till  morning.  But  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  suddenly  started  up.  The  pain  in  his  head 
was  worse:  it  had  taken  the  form  of  a  voice  which 
kept  repeating,  "  Get  up  and  go  to  the  tunnel." 
"  Oh,"  thought  Gilbert,  "  that  was  it,  was  it?  "  and 
without  resisting  for  a  second  he  put  on  his  clothes 
and  escaped  from  the  house.  His  awful  isolation,  in 
which  even  the  memory  of  his  home  appeared  dim  and 
meaningless,  made  him  hasten  to  reach  the  only  real 
place  remaining  on  the  earth.  The  cutting,  the  tun- 
nel —  how  safe  they  were,  like  a  rock  in  the  middle 
of  the  ocean!  He  would  hold  on  to  them  and  not 
let  go.  Firm  and  solid,  they  seemed  to  rise  before 
him  in  the  still  and  vast  expanse  of  nothingness. 

248 


Deep  Down 

"  Never,  never  let  go,"  he  thought,  hurrying  forward. 

And  here  he  was  at  last !  He  felt  a  new  man  —  so 
secure,  so  free  from  pain.  He  looked  at  the  mouth 
and  he  said,  "  I'll  walk  into  the  tunnel,  into  the  very 
middle,  and  then  I'll  lie  down  and  the  train  will  go 
over  me,  and  I  shall  know  that  I've  dared  to  do  it." 
It  was  a  great  idea  and  very  thrilling.  Oh,  it  was 
splendid  to  have  the  protection  of  something  real! 
He  was  not  afraid.  He  began  to  walk  boldly  into 
the  heart  of  the  blackness.  "  Won't  it  roar !  "  he 
thought,  laughing  inwardly.  He  was  surprised  to 
find  that  he  was  singing.  He  sat  down  on  the  rails, 
singing  and  shouting  with  joy.  How  happy  it  was 
to  have  something  real  to  lay  hold  on !  Apparently 
the  approaching  train  was  not  real  at  all,  for  Gilbert 
never  heard  it.  There  was  a  hammering  in  his  ears, 
making  a  much  louder  noise.  He  was  given  no  con- 
scious chance  of  testing  his  bravery  again.  .  .  . 

After  Gilbert's  departure,  Mr.  Burgess  had  tried 
to  dismiss  the  matter  from  his  mind  and  to  continue 
his  study  of  Rufinus.  But  the  boy's  story  —  or 
rather  the  way  he  had  told  it  —  had  left  a  curious 
impression  on  him.  "  I  do  hope  I  did  right,"  he 
thought.  He  felt  angry  with  himself,  humiliated, 
and  oppressed !  Ah !  these  schoolboys,  they  were  al- 
ways coming  between  him  and  the  fulfilment  of  his  one 
desire!  How  could  he  work,  how  could  he  finish  his 
huge  undertaking  if  his  soul  were  troubled?  He  be- 

249 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


gan  to  walk  up  and  down  his  room.  He  tried  to 
conjure  up  the  august  scenes  of  the  past,  those  im- 
ages which  had  never  failed  to  comfort  his  lonely 
hours.  It  was  in  vain.  Gilbert's  story  protruded 
itself  at  every  moment.  "  What  could  I  have  said 
to  him?  "  he  argued.  He  was  deeply  disturbed.  "  I 
have  lived  in  myself  too  long ;  the  slightest  thing  up- 
sets me."  He  felt  more  and  more  uneasy.  "  Wait," 
he  muttered  desperately,  "  before  he  came  I  was 
thinking  of  old  Rufinus.  I  was  going  into  the  ques- 
tion of  his  attack  upon  the  writings  of  Origen. 
Poor  Rufinus !  —  he,  too,  had  his  peaceful  time 
broken  in  upon,  and  forever.  O  Alaric,  you  have 
much  to  answer  for!  Pinetum  might  have  kept  its 
honoured  guest  for  many  a  long  year  but  for  your 
invasion.  Presumptuous  man,  how  little  you  real- 
ised what  you  were  doing!  But,  alas,  you  were  only 
one  of  the  Church's  innumerable  foes !  It  was  men 
like  Rufinus,  like  Cassian,  like  Prosper,  and  like  Si- 
donius  Apollinaris  who,  obscurer  Fathers  as  some 
consider  them,  steered  the  Church  through  many  a 
crisis  of  its  history.  They  are  as  the  distant  stars, 
shining  minute  through  the  immensity  of  stellar 
space,  but  in  reality  of  the  first  magnitude,  burning 
with  fervent  heat,  and  glorious  beyond  the  timid 
reach  of  our  imaginations." 

He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  suddenly 
scowled.     "Ah,  that  Gilbert!"  he  cried.     "I  can't 

250 


Deep  Down 

think  of  anything,"  he  added  nervously ;  "  it  all  seems 
so  remote,  so  remote."  He  went  to  the  table,  sat 
down,  and  rested  his  head  in  his  hands.  "  Yes ;  I 
shall  never  finish  it,"  he  pondered.  "  How  many 
years  now  —  ten,  eleven?  And  Migne's  texts  are  so 
corrupt.  O  Lord !  I  am  weak ;  my  courage  fails  me ! 
Desert  me  not.  What  I  do  is  all  to  Thy  honour  and 
glory." 

He  was  unspeakably  dismayed.  The  visit  of  the 
boy  had  served  to  upset  the  balance  of  a  mind  al- 
ready overwrought.  It  had  shown  him  a  sombre  and 
hidden  glimpse  of  life  where  he  had  least  expected  to 
find  it.  The  early  Christians,  he  knew,  were  often 
possessed,  encompassed  as  they  were  by  an  army  of 
fiends,  but  it  was  too  ghastly  to  think  that  the  Devil 
had  come  again  upon  earth  to  torment  the  growing 
generation.  For  a  long  time  he  remained  bowed  over 
the  table.  "  No ;  I  shall  never  finish  it,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  at  the  mere  idea  the  whole  work  of  his 
lifetime  seemed  to  lie  shattered  at  his  feet.  He  was 
a  solitary  man.  He  had  no  friends.  If  this  were  to 
fail  him,  what  then  would  remain?  He  did  not  dare 
to  frame  the  answer  because  he  knew  that  the  answer 
was  "  nothing."  "  I'm  not  well  to-night,"  he  whis- 
pered. He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  through 
which  the  moonlight  was  streaming.  "  Not  at  all 
well,"  he  whispered  again. 

It  was  at  that  instant  that  he  caught  sight  of  two 
251 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


small  boys  stealing  along  the  corner  of  the  house. 
His  window  was  on  the  ground  floor;  he  opened  it, 
jumped  out,  and  had  caught  them  before  they  could 
take  alarm. 

"  Here,  let  me  see  you  by  the  light,"  he  said 
sternly,  and  he  dragged  them  back  with  him  into  his 
room. 

Five  minutes  later  Mr.  Burgess  was  tearing  down 
the  road.  He  knew  all  that  the  boys  had  to  tell 
him.  He  ran  as  he  had  never  run  before,  stumbling, 
sobbing  for  breath.  He  reached  the  cutting,  he 
slithered  down  on  to  the  line,  and  he  darted  into  the 
tunnel,  calling  out  Gilbert's  name  as  he  went.  The 
only  reply  was  a  sort  of  mad,  ringing  echo  of  his 
own  voice.  He  stopped  and  he  called  again,  once, 
very  loudly,  "  Gilbert,  where  are  you?  "  And  the 
confused  clamour  of  his  voice  broke  round  him  in  the 
tunnel  like  a  clap  of  thunder.  Mr.  Burgess  waited 
till  all  was  still.  He  was  shaking.  "  Answer,  an- 
swer !  "  he  shouted  in  frenzy ;  then,  knowing  suddenly 
that  he  would  never  get  any  answer,  he  rushed  out 
of  the  tunnel.  He  was  in  a  panic.  He  ran  home, 
locked  himself  into  his  room,  and  began  tearing  up 
his  manuscript  as  though  he  had  not  a  moment  to 
spare.  "  It  was  this  kept  me  from  understanding," 
he  thought  frantically ;  "  it's  all  meaningless,  waste 
paper,  the  work  of  a  fool.  It's  I  who  am  responsi- 
ble. I  and  only  I."  All  at  once  he  stopped,  looked 

262 


Deep  Down 

with  horror  upon  the  wreck  of  his  life's  work,  and 
went  tottering  into  his  bedroom.  During  the  whole 
of  that  night  he  law,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  staring 
up  at  the  ceiling.  .  .  . 

When  the  boys  trooped  into  the  dining-hall  for 
breakfast  the  next  morning  they  noticed  that  old 
Glossop  was  in  one  of  his  bad  moods.  He  watched 
them  enter  without  a  smile.  He  had  just  received  a 
note  from  his  new  master  to  announce  that  we  was  so 
unwell  that  he  must  resign  forthwith.  What  an  end- 
less trial  they  were,  these  masters  of  his !  He  gazed 
gloomily  round  at  the  boys,  and  as  he  did  so  he  per- 
ceived that  one  was  absent. 

"  Where  is  Gilbert?  "  he  demanded  ominously. 

Nobody  answered,  but  in  the  deathlike  silence  that 
supervened  Simpson  and  Butterworth  looked  fixedly 
at  one  another. 


258 


NINETEEN 


NINETEEN 


WE  were  sitting,  Ted  Brownlow  and  I, 
under  the  apple  trees  of  his  little  or- 
chard. A  deal  table  had  been  brought 
from  the  house  and  we  were  having  tea  in  the  long 
grass.  Beneath  us,  starting  from  our  very  feet, 
the  slope  of  the  hill  showed  the  long  valley  of  the 
Severn  and  the  river  glinting  here  and  there  until  it 
disappeared  in  haze  towards  the  Bristol  Channel. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  the  apple  leaves  above 
us,  and  the  sky,  without  a  cloud,  had  lost  its  deeper 
blue  in  the  hot  stillness  of  the  afternoon. 

We  had  been  talking  about  old  times  and  had 
gradually  fallen  silent.  That's  what  usually  hap- 
pens. One  cannot  really  talk  about  the  past.  Too 
many  faces  begin  to  crowd  upon  one's  memory,  too 
many  intimate,  moving  and  forgotten  scenes.  "  Do 
you  remember  so  and  so?  "  some  one  asks.  Remem- 
ber so  and  so !  Good  gracious !  Remember  him  in- 
deed !  And  all  you  can  do  is  to  answer,  "  Yes  I  re- 
member him.  Wasn't  it  he  who  took  us  to  see  those 
girls  at  Blunt's  Cottage?  "  Phew  .  .  .  One  can  so- 

257 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


liloquise  about  the  past  —  that's  different  —  one 
can't  discuss  it. 

So  we  had  been  sitting  silent  like  that  for  perhaps 
five  minutes  when  my  friend,  rising  abruptly,  said 
that  he  must  go  in  and  see  "  How  Ada  was  getting 
on."  (Ada  is  his  sister  —  an  invalid  these  last  ten 
years.) 

I  nodded.  I  watched  his  tall,  thin  figure  go 
through  the  wooden  orchard  gate,  across  the  lawn, 
into  the  house,  and  all  of  a  sudden  my  wayward 
thoughts  fixed  themselves  on  him.  After  all  he  was 
part  of  my  past,  too.  I  had  known  him  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  ever  since  he  had  returned  from  his 
wild  travels  and  had  settled  down  for  good  upon  this 
little  Cotswold  farm.  "  And  this  is  the  life  he  leads 
now !  "  I  muttered,  amazed,  even  then,  after  all  these 
years.  For  it  was  amazing.  You  had  only  to  think 
of  his  past.  Not,  indeed,  that  he  had  ever  told  me 
much  about  it.  He  kept  the  memory  of  his  wander- 
ings locked  in  his  own  bosom.  Occasionally  he  would 
mention  them  by  way  of  reference  ("  That  was  the 

year  I  was  in island  "  or  "  It  would  be  about 

then  I  discovered  that  tributary  of  the  "),  or 

just  occasionally  he  would  tell  me  some  strange  an- 
ecdote (how  fantastically  he  could  conjure  the  wil- 
derness before  me!),  but,  on  the  whole,  he  was  not 
given  to  reminiscence.  Not  at  all,  I  assure  you. 
He  would  much  rather  have  discussed  the  latest 

258 


Nineteen 

batch  of  French  Memoirs  from  the  London  Library. 
Reading,  farming,  and  the  care  of  his  sister  made 
up  the  daily  round. 

No,  it  was  not  from  anything  he  had  said  that  I 
knew  about  his  wanderings.  It  was  from  that  little 
book  he  wrote  in  the  first  months  of  his  return  to 
civilisation.  Do  you  know  it?  It  is  called  "  Coral 
Reefs  and  Unrecorded  Bays."  Nowadays  I  never 
see  a  copy  about  and  I  suppose  it  must  be  very  rare. 
It  fell  flat  at  the  time,  I  remember,  which  doesn't  sur- 
prise me  but  which  does  assure  me  in  my  opinion  of 
public  taste.  For  if  ever  there  was  a  singular  and 
beautiful  book  it  is  the  "  Coral  Reefs  and  Unrecorded 
Bays  "  that  my  friend,  Ted  Brownlow  (under  the 
pseudonym  of  "  Southward  Ho  "),  wrote  so  many 
years  since.  The  very  title  fascinates  me  and  as  for 
the  contents,  I  have  read  them,  I  think,  a  hundred 
times.  The  glow  of  tropical  sunlight  falls  upon 
these  pages.  As  you  read  you  can  see  the  lagoons 
opening  from  the  sea  with  their  ring  of  dark  forest, 
you  can  hear  the  frogs  calling  in  their  pools  drown- 
ing the  surf  upon  the  sand.  A  strange  book  —  and 
utterly  unknown!  It's  author  never  alludes  to  it. 
But  how  often  have  I  taken  it  up  on  these  quiet  sum- 
mer evenings  and,  after  reading  a  few  pages,  closed 
it  and  sat  looking  towards  the  Bristol  Channel  and 
imagined  how  I,  myself,  might  sail  outwards  and 
"  down  under  "  to  the  South.  I  shall  never  do  it,  of 

259 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


course;  I  am  too  old.  But  I  am  glad  to  have  this 
fancy  and  to  feel  that  there  is  still  something  left, 
some  secret  delight,  and  that  destroying  time  has  not 
destroyed  the  most  precious  of  all  its  gifts,  has  not 
destroyed  romance,  the  breath  of  joy  and  life.  .  .  . 

And  so,  as  I  watched  Ted  Brownlow  disappear 
into  his  house,  I  began  to  wonder  whether  he,  too, 
had  such  thoughts  or  whether  age  had,  at  last,  with- 
ered the  fire  within  him.  Did  he  think  of  his  past 
life  with  vain  regret  or  was  it  no  more  to  him  than  the 
peaceful  present?  Had  time,  which  evaporates  the 
ardour  of  most  men's  desire,  left  him  like  old,  old 
port  which,  long  ripening  to  maturity,  becomes,  at 
length,  thin,  acid,  without  a  history,  or  had  it  only 
deepened,  as  does  occasionally  happen,  the  passion- 
ate longings  of  youth  and  memory.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  came  out  again. 
If  anything  the  day  had  grown  still  more  breathless. 
The  bees  were  drowsily  buzzing,  and  the  hens,  having 
covered  their  backs  with  dust,  were  crouching  be- 
neath the  trees.  The  sun  shone  a  little  mistily  and 
the  glare  was  leaving  the  sky.  How  pleasant  to  sit 
in  the  orchard  and  let  these  vague  questions  filter 
through  the  brain !  The  slight  sadness  of  my  mood 
harmonised  with  the  declining  day.  I  could  have 
waited  there  contentedly  till  darkness  had  come,  but 
just  then  my  friend  emerged  from  the  house.  With 
his  stoop  and  his  slow,  shuffling  gait  he  resembled 

260 


Nineteen 

the  imaginary  professor  of  a  novel.  And  this  was 
the  great  traveller  of  old!  I  was  seized  with 
a  sudden  and  more  intense  curiosity.  I  must 
know.  .  .  . 

On  rejoining  me  he  made  some  casual,  apologetic 
remark.  I  smiled  as  though  I  had  taken  it  in  and 
I  asked  him  quickly,  "  Do  you  never  feel  a  wish  to  go 
back  to  the  Tropics  ?  " 

He  gave  me  rather  a  startled  glance. 

"  I  ?  —  no,  never.  What  a  question !  That's  to 
say,  not  now.  Why  should  I?  " 

"Well,  but  what  do  you  mean  exactly?"  I  in- 
sisted. 

He  got  up,  fidgeted  with  his  hands,  and  sat  down 
again. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  know  what 
a  change  twenty  years  has  made  out  there.  I  should 
feel  like  a  fish  out  of  water.  Almost  every  one  of 
my  friends  ...  it  would  be  ghastly.  Besides  —  be- 
sides I  might  be  quite  disillusioned." 

He  looked  jeeringly  at  me. 

"  Just  think,  suppose  I  were  disillusioned !  "  he 
added. 

"  But  you  know  what  to  expect." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  remarked  drily,  "  I  know 
nothing  at  all  about  it.  Material  facts  —  yes.  On 
such  and  such  a  day  after  leaving  the  Channel  you 
will  make  such  and  such  a  landfall.  Quite  right. 

261 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


But  it's  not  material  facts  that  count,  it's  the  atti- 
tude. How  could  I  go  out  there  as  I  went  at  nine- 
teen?" 

He  appeared  irritable  (an  unusual  state  with  him), 
but  suddenly  shook  his  head,  smiled  and  stared 
dreamily  at  the  grass. 

"  Do  you  know  how  I  came  to  leave  England  first 
of  all?  "  he  murmured. 

"  No,  tell  me  about  it,"  I  replied  at  once ;  "  you 
haven't  put  that  in  your  book." 

"In  my  book?  —  of  course  not.  It's  not  the 
sort  of  thing  you  put  in  books.  It  was  an  odd  busi- 
ness. I  went  out  with  my  uncle." 

"  But  how  was  it  ?  "  I  asked,  noticing  that  he 
seemed  uncertain  whether  to  speak  or  not. 

"  Why,  it  was  like  this.  I  had  an  Uncle  Joe  who 
used  to  turn  up  now  and  then  from  the  most  out- 
landish places.  He  was  a  jolly  fellow,  a  great  hero 
with  us,  but  a  bad  lot  really.  Went  about  swindling 
niggers  and  so  on.  Well,  we  didn't  care!  So  one 
morning  he  appears  quite  unexpectedly  at  my  moth- 
er's farm  in  Yorkshire.  And  what  do  you  think?  — 
he  announces  his  intention  of  carrying  me  off  with 
him  to  Peru  next  week.  He  was  going  out  to  sell 
filters  and  get  concessions  —  all  sorts  of  things.  By 
Jove,  can  you  imagine  my  excitement?  We  twisted 
my  mother  round  our  fingers  in  no  time.  She  was 
completely  bewildered.  By  the  evening  it  was  all 

262 


Nineteen 

arranged.  I  was  to  go  up  to  London  with  my  uncle 
at  once.  Fancy  I  had  never  even  been  in  London ! 
Why,  never  even  out  of  Yorkshire.  That  night  I 
got  hold  of  our  old  copy  of  Prescott.  It  couldn't 
be  too  bloodthirsty  for  me.  ...  I  imagined  Peru  as 
one  mass  of  gold  —  gold  and  parrots.  You  know 
the  old  stamps  one  used  to  collect.  ...  In  three 
days  we  were  off  to  London. 

"  We  stayed  at  a  hotel  somewhere  behind  Hoi- 
born.  My  uncle  used  to  spend  his  days  in  the  city 
—  I  explored.  Sometimes  he  would  bring  back  one 
or  two  of  his  friends  —  men  with  clipped  moustaches 
and  hats  at  the  back  of  their  heads,  who  smoked 
cigars,  drank  whiskey  and  water,  and  were  inces- 
santly writing  in  notebooks.  My  uncle  told  me  that 
they  were  his  business  friends  and  that  I  must  always 
show  them  great  consideration.  '  They  are  impor- 
tant men,'  he  would  say  in  a  confidential  tone,  *  very 
important;  you  can't  be  too  polite  to  them.'  Cer- 
tainly they  were  the  only  people  I  had  ever  set  eyes 
on  who  could  make  my  uncle  keep  comparatively 
quiet.  I  respected  them  accordingly. 

"  The  days  passed  like  lightning.  A  week  went 
by.  On  the  following  morning  we  were  to  leave 
Waterloo  for  Southampton  at  ten  o'clock.  We  had 
made  all  our  purchases  —  from  toothpowder  to  drill 
suits.  Or  rather,  I  had  made  them  all.  My  uncle 
had  produced  a  bag  of  sovereigns  and  long  paper 

268 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


lists.  I  went  about  with  them  buying  and  ticking  off. 
A  huge  lark  —  I  had  £10  for  myself  over  and  above. 
.  .  .  The  business  friends  were  in  great  evidence  that 
night,  champagne  flowing,  and  every  one  very  jovial. 
As  usual,  no  one  took  much  notice  of  me.  I  went  to 
bed  early  but  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  lay  awake  all 
night.  .  .  . 

"And  the  next  day  —  how  can  I  describe  it? 
Have  you  known  what  it  is  to  go  on  board  a  liner 
for  the  first  time,  to  see  the  white  decks  towering 
above  you  and  the  passengers  lolling  over  the 
rails,  to  jostle  and  push  up  the  gangway,  to  feel 
the  ship  beneath  you,  clean,  busy,  ready  for  her 
voyage,  to  dive  down  and  along  the  alleyways  till  a 
steward  opens  the  cabin  door  before  you,  to  sink 
upon  the  couch  beneath  the  closed  port-hole,  with 
that  hot,  airless  ship's  smell  in  your  nostrils  ?  Then 
that  first  argument  with  a  shore-porter  (a  villainous 
breed  with  husky  voices )  and  the  first  lunch  —  all 
cold  beef,  salad,  pickles  and  jam-puffs,  with  the  gera- 
niums on  the  table,  and  the  turmoil  of  people  rushing 
in  and  out.  And  the  first  glimpse  of  the  drawing- 
room  where  some  clergyman  or  other  is  sure  to  be 
trying  to  write  fifty  letters  before  the  steamer  sails 
—  can  all  that  ever  be  felt  properly  but  once?  Well, 
I  mustn't  moralise.  .  .  . 

"  We  had  hardly  got  on  board  when  some  typical 
friends  of  my  uncle  appeared  from  nowhere  (it  was  a 

264 


Nineteen 

habit  they  had)  and,  being  thirsty,  as  usual,  took 
him  along  with  them  to  the  smoking-room.  I  had 
lunch  by  myself  and  after  seeing  again  that  every- 
thing was  safely  in  the  cabin  I  went  on  deck  and 
strolled  up  and  down.  We  were  just  preparing  to 
cast  off.  The  last  whistle  had  blown,  several  women 
were  weeping  on  the  quay,  a  postman  stared  up  at 
us  with  pale,  bulging  eyes.  He  was  an  old  man. 
Perhaps  his  only  son  was  leaving  England.  ...  I 
remember  it  all.  I  heard  some  one  call  out  an  order, 
the  gangways  were  swung  clear,  the  engine-room  bell 
clanged,  and  slowly,  under  the  guidance  of  her  tug, 
she  edged  sideways  from  the  shore.  I  looked  down- 
wards upon  the  crowd  of  upturned  faces.  People 
were  waving,  a  girl  kissed  her  hand,  a  cat  mewed 
piteously  from  a  basket,  cries  of  farewell  were  grow- 
ing fainter  —  outward  bound  at  last ! 

"  It  was  the  middle  of  June.  An  afternoon  like  this 
but  clearer.  Blue  wavelets  ruffled  the  smooth  sur- 
face. Inshore  the  paddle-steamers  were  plying  along 
the  Isle  of  Wight  and  yachts  skimed  in  every  direc- 
tion. We  passed  through  the  Needles,  with  the  low 
Hampshire  coast  fading  in  the  distance,  dropped  the 
pilot  and,  turning,  headed  down  Channel.  Already 
I  began  to  feel  at  home.  I  walked  about  a  little 
and  then,  going  below,  found  my  uncle  on  the  couch 
calmly  reading  a  French  novel.  He  had  opened  the 
port  and  a  delicious  breeze  filled  the  cabin.  The 

265 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


throb  of  the  engines,  the  swish  of  the  tiny  waves 
against  the  ship,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  spar- 
kling water  filled  me  with  unspeakable  elation.  I 
could  have  shouted  aloud.  .  .  . 

"  But  it  didn't  continue  like  this.  About  five  in 
the  morning  we  ran  into  the  tail-end  of  a  storm.  It 
was  the  rolling  of  the  ship  that  awoke  me.  The 
steward  had  come  in  in  his  bare  feet  and  was  screwing 
up  the  port.  (He  was  a  wonderful  fellow,  this  stew- 
ard of  ours,  Carrington,  a  pure  black  from  Nevis, 
with  the  most  imperturbable  manners  and  as  silent  as 
a  ghost.)  In  spite  of  all  my  forebodings  I  didn't 
feel  one  tinge  of  sea-sickness  —  I  never  have.  It 
was  broad  daylight,  of  course,  and  I  was  only  anxious 
to  be  up  and  on  deck.  My  uncle  was  asleep,  and  the 
sea,  growing  heavier  from  minute  to  minute,  was 
beating  in  great,  blinding  smashes  upon  the  port. 
After  bearing  it  as  long  as  I  could  I  got  out  of  my 
bunk  and  stumbled  across  to  the  bath-room,  where  a 
sleepy  steward  had  just  come  on  duty.  He  was  more 
than  surprised  to  see  me.  However,  he  got  a  bath 
ready  at  once  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  —  yes, 
believe  me,  it  was  so  —  I  plunged  into  salt  water.  I 
must  have  gone  up  in  the  estimation  of  that  steward. 
If  you  can  stand  a  cold,  salt  bath  the  first  morning 
of  a  voyage  when  the  boat  is  rolling  twenty  degrees 
—  well,  you  can  stand  anything.  Take  it  from  me. 
They  have  a  smell  of  their  own  these  ships'  bath- 

266 


Nineteen 

rooms,  a  mixture  of  brine  and  steam  pipes  and  soap 
and  hot  oil.     It  does  for  a  good  many  people. 

"  When  I  got  on  deck  there  was  not  a  passenger 
in  sight.  I  received  a  draught  of  air  such  as  had 
never  entered  my  lungs  before.  And  all  round  the 
green-white  waves  were  tossing  and  up  above  fleecy 
clouds  were  scudding  across  the  sky.  The  wind  whis- 
tled overhead.  The  ship  rolled  so  violently  that  I 
had  to  keep  making  frantic  runs  half  across  the  deck. 
Presently  from  below  two  people  made  their  appear- 
ance, two  of  the  very  people  I  had  noticed  at  our 
table  the  night  before.  One  was  a  dissipated,  elderly 
man  with  a  red  nose,  red  lumps  on  his  forehead,  and 
a  protuberant  stomach,  and  the  other  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen or  thereabouts  —  such  a  beauty.  I  was  quite 
taken  aback  and  was  beginning  to  slink  round  (that's 
a  euphemism)  to  the  other  side  of  the  deck  when  the 
fat  man  called  out  lustily  to  me  — 

"  '  This  is  a  grand  morning,  young  sir.' 

"  I  blushed  quite  unnecessarily  and,  taking  advan- 
tage of  a  favourable  roll,  almost  collided  with  them. 

"  *  Isn't  it  ?  '  I  gasped.  And,  turning  to  the  girl, 
I  added,  '  Please  forgive  me ;  I  couldn't  help  it.' 

"  She  laughed,  nodding  her  head. 

"  *  Take  care,  father;  don't  fall,'  she  cried,  as  the 
fat  man  tried  to  steer  his  way  down  the  deck. 

"  *  We  haven't  got  our  sea-legs  yet,'  she  added 
gaily- 

267 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  I  seemed  to  be  growing  more  speechless  every  mo- 
ment. 

"  *  I  say,  excuse  me ;  I  must  go  and  see  how  my 
uncle  is,'  I  blurted  out  suddenly. 

"  She  smiled  in  a  friendly  way ;  the  fat  man,  bal- 
ancing himself  precariously,  half-turned  and  shouted 
against  the  wind,  '  Meet  again  later,'  whilst  I,  hardly 
knowing  what  to  do,  waved  my  hand  and  darted  down 
the  companion-ladder.  I  found  my  uncle  still  asleep. 
The  cabin  was  in  semi-darkness  from  the  water 
streaming  down  the  glass  and  the  atmosphere  was 
appalling.  But,  being  an  ass,  I  didn't  dare  to  show 
my  face  on  deck  again  before  breakfast.  I  got  onto 
the  couch  and  tried  to  doze.  It  was  quite  unsuccess- 
ful. ...  I  felt  very  happy. 

"You  smile  —  but  what  did  you  expect?  At 
nineteen  it's  very  simple.  Why,  I  could  have  shown 
you  the  whole  world  in  a  nutshell.  Look,  just  like 
this !  Do  you  know  that  I  haven't  thought  of  that 
voyage  for  years  and  years.  Yet  I  see  it  now  as  I 
speak,  see  the  faces  turned  to  me  and  the  breaking 
waves,  hear  the  voices.  .  .  .  And  that  girl,  Pris- 
cilla  —  Priscilla  Goodenough  — !  I  made  great 
friends  with  her  in  a  few  days.  It  happened 
like  this.  My  uncle  couldn't  bear  her  father  — 
no  one  could  —  and  always  treated  him  with  icy 
politeness.  This  wasn't  at  all  like  him,  for  he  was 
the  best-natured  man  on  earth.  Still  there  it  was 

268 


Nineteen 

—  and  it  was  very  marked.  It  appears  that  old 
Goodenough  wanted  to  join  a  poker  party  which  my 
uncle  had  got  together  in  the  smoke-room  and  that 
my  uncle  wouldn't  have  him.  Not  at  any  price. 
There  had  been  words  of  some  sort  —  nothing  much. 
The  old  man  had  positively  wept  —  he  was  never 
quite  sober  —  and  had  made  a  speech  in  which  he 
said  that  he  hoped  he  had  always  behaved  like  a  gen- 
tleman and  always  would. 

"  A  silly  business !  Unfortunately  his  daughter 
had  got  wind  of  it  and  came  to  me  for  the  full  story. 
(You  know,  I  had  tried  at  meals  and  so  on  to  show 
that  I  didn't  share  my  uncle's  dislike.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  did  —  however,  you  can  understand.)  Her 
father  was  in  very  low  spirits,  she  said.  He  would 
only  tell  her  things  in  fragments  but  she  gathered 
that  there  had  been  some  unpleasantness  between  him 
and  my  uncle.  She  wasn't  excusing  her  father.  It 
was  easy  to  blame  him  —  nobody  was  perfect,  he 
least  of  all  —  but  he  was  getting  old.  *  He  is  not 
what  he  was,'  she  murmured.  I  was  terribly  em- 
barrassed. Should  I  speak  to  my  uncle?  I  asked. 
She  looked  at  me  with  liquid  eyes.  Oh,  if  only  I 
would!  Her  father  was  so  easily  upset,  it  was  so 
hard  to  know  what  to  do,  etc.,  etc.  I  felt  that  I 
had  her  confidence. 

"  *  All  right ;  I'll  speak  before  lunch,'  I  assured 
her,  looking  away.  (This  was  the  fourth  day  out.) 

269 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  But  now  something  very  odd  happened.  As  I 
was  going  down  the  deck  towards  the  companion- 
ladder  I  ran  into  old  Goodenough,  who  was  lying  in 
wait  for  me  outside  the  door  of  his  cabin.  He  beck- 
oned to  me  with  elaborate  secrecy.  I  could  do  noth- 
ing but  approach. 

"  *  Will  you  oblige  me,  young  sir,  by  coming  in 
here  for  an  instant  ?  '  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  He  looked  solemn.  Of  course,  I  thought  at  once 
that  he  had  seen  me  talking  to  his  daughter 
('  Prissy,5  as  he  called  her)  and  meant  to  read  me  a 
lesson.  Very  uncomfortable  for  me.  .  .  . 

"  His  cabin  was  a  single-berth  one.  As  soon  as 
we  entered  he  carefully  closed  the  door,  pulled  the 
curtain  across  the  window,  and  struck  a  light. 
(He'd  have  made  his  fortune  in  a  melodrama.)  All 
this  time  my  knees  were  knocking  together.  He 
placed  a  chair  for  me  and  asked  me  to  be  seated. 

II 

"  *  Young  Mr.  Brownlow,'  he  began,  *  my  dear 
young  friend,  you  can  help  me  with  your  good  ad- 
vice.' (He  was  obviously  rather  drunk  and  smelt 
of  spirits.)  'My  dear  friend  —  my  dear  friend  — 
but  first  tell  me  what  you  think  of  this  rum  —  the 
finest  Jamaica,  very  old ! '  He  produced  a  bottle 
from  somewhere  and  poured  out  two  glasses.  *  Come, 

270 


Nineteen 

I  drink  to  you  —  I  know  you  are  going  to  make  a 
name  for  yourself  —  but,  my  dear  friend,  tell  me, 
what  am  I  to  do?  Your  excellent  uncle  —  believe 
me,  I  would  do  anything.  I  am  a  man  of  the  most 
friendly  disposition.  Just  think!  For  forty  years 
—  yes,  forty-two  years  —  back  and  forwards  on  this 
very  line  —  and  now  —  what  am  I  to  do?  " 

"  He  was  working  himself  up  into  a  state  of  maud- 
lin despair. 

"  *  What  am  I  to  do  ?  '  he  repeated,  wringing  his 
hands. 

"  You  can  imagine  how  awful  this  was  for  me. 
I  was  in  utter  confusion. 

"  *  I'll  —  I'll  speak  to  my  uncle,'  I  stammered,  not 
even  pretending  to  misunderstand  him ;  *  no  doubt  — 
or,  rather,  perhaps  —  at  any  rate  I'll  do  my  best.' 

"  One  really  had  to  treat  him  like  a  child.  He 
didn't  seem  to  have  an  ounce  of  pride.  His  red, 
tipsy  face  quivered  with  emotion.  Tears  started 
into  his  eyes.  He  murmured  a  few  disjointed  words 
of  thanks.  But  all  the  same  it  appeared  to  me  that 
there  was  a  certain  slyness  about  his  expression. 
He  was  evidently  anxious  for  me  to  be  gone. 

"  I  was  only  too  pleased  to  get  out  on  deck  again. 
I  was  oppressed  by  the  thought  that  this  was  prob- 
ably a  preconcerted  plan  between  father  and  daugh- 
ter. However,  as  there  seemed  no  way  of  finding 
that  out  except  by  direct  challenge  to  the  girl  (an 

271 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


impossible  proceeding)  I  went  straight  down  to  the 
cabin,  feeling  very  miserable.  It  was  half  an  hour 
before  lunch.  My  uncle  was  installed  on  the  couch 
reading  his  interminable  French  novel  (full  of  im- 
proper illustrations)  and  I  tackled  him  at  once. 

<c '  Do  you  know,  Uncle,  that  poor  Miss  Good- 
enough  is  very  upset  about  you  and  her  father?  ' 

"  My  uncle  burst  out  laughing. 

"  *  Eh,  my  boy,'  what  does  the  poor  girl  say?  '  he 
replied  mockingly. 

"I  told  him. 

"  *  Well,  Ted,  you  give  her  a  kiss  and  say  that  it'll 
be  all  right.' 

"  I  felt  more  than  ever  as  though  I  had  put  my 
head  into  a  hornet's  nest  —  still,  it  was  rather  thrill- 
ing. 

"  '  You  mean  you'll  let  him  play,  Uncle,  and  — 
and  speak  to  him  at  table?  '  I  answered  seriously. 

"  This  sent  my  uncle  into  further  roars  of  laugh- 
ter. 

"  *  Why,  the  fellow's  a  regular  advocate ! '  he 
shouted.  *  It's  the  petticoats,  Ted.  You'd  better 
take  care.' 

"  Of  course  I  furiously  denied  it. 

"  '  Watch  me  at  lunch,'  said  my  uncle  in  the  great- 
est good  humour.  *  Only  he  mustn't  get  too  drunk 
—  I  draw  the  line  there.' 

"  I  had  to  be  content  with  that.  I  was  very  glad 
272 


Nineteen 

I  hadn't  said  a  word  about  the  other  interview.  I 
slipped  out  of  the  cabin  and  ran  up  on  deck.  I 
found  Miss  Goodenough  where  I  had  left  her. 

"  *  I've  seen  my  uncle,5  I  began  hastily.  '  There's 
been  some  misunderstanding,  but  I've  cleared  it 
away.' 

"  What  a  glance  she  gave  me !  'I  knew  you 
would,*  she  murmured,  putting  out  her  hand. 

"  But  at  that  very  moment  the  cursed  thought  of 
the  whole  thing  being  a  plot  surged  up  and  dashed 
all  my  pleasure. 

"  Despair  made  me  suddenly  reckless. 

"  '  Do  tell  me  —  it  wasn't  your  father  who  asked 
you  to  ask  me?  '  I  muttered. 

"  *  What,  has  he  been  speaking  to  you  ?  '  she  an- 
swered quickly. 

"(*  That  means  it  was,'  I  thought,  looking  at  her 
with  anger.) 

"  '  Yes,'  I  replied. 

"  She  closed  her  eyes  and  shuddered. 

"  *  I  couldn't  have  stood  against  that,  could  I  ? ' 
*  But,  Miss  Goodenough,  why  shouldn't  he?  '  I  added 
gently.  *  I  ought  not  to  have  put  that  question. 
He  only  asked  me  if  he  had  offended  my  uncle.  Of 
course  he  hadn't.  It's  all  settled  now.' 

"  She  gave  her  head  a  mournful  shake. 

"  *  Yes,  but  I  know  him,'  she  insisted,  sighing  heav- 
ily. *  He  humiliates  himself  —  it's  so  wretched,  and 

373 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


for  me,  too.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  had  any  such  in- 
tention. I  would  have  warned  you,  of  course.  You 
must  think  badly  of  us.' 

"  Really  I  could  have  thrown  myself  into  the  sea 
I  felt  such  a  scoundrel.  I  gazed  at  her.  I  was 
speechless. 

"  *  Never  mind,  never  mind,'  she  said,  frowning  as 
though  to  keep  back  her  tears.  .  .  . 

"  That  was  how  our  friendship  began.  Yes,  I 
can  see  her  now  standing  there  looking  strangely  at 
me,  tapping  with  her  little  foot  on  the  deck.  That 
same  afternoon  she  told  me  a  lot  about  herself. 

Her  father  was  a  sugar  planter  in ,  a  very  rich 

man.  His  family  had  made  their  fortune  in  the  old 
slavery  days.  *  We  were  as  well  known  throughout 
the  islands  as  the  Beckfords,'  she  added  proudly.  (I 
remember  giving  an  incredulous  start  at  this  infor- 
mation, though,  to  speak  truly,  I  had  never  heard  of 
the  Beckfords  before.)  Her  father,  she  went  on  to 
tell  me,  was  a  widower  and  she  was  his  only  child. 
He  had  come  over  to  fetch  her  from  a  convent  in 
Milan  where  she  had  been  for  three  years.  He  was  a 
kind  father  to  her,  would  do  anything  for  her,  buy 
her  anything,  but  she  hardly  seemed  to  know  him 
after  all  this  time.  He  was  an  altered  man.  Her 
lip  quivered  as  she  spoke  of  him.  It  was  being  alone 
so  much,  she  thought,  and  he  was  getting  old,  too, 
and  altogether  it  was  a  bad  look-out.  But  then, 

274. 


Nineteen 

perhaps,  it  would  be  different  now.  Did  I  not  think 
so?  I  nodded  emphatically,  but  I  must  admit  that 
she  gave  utterance  to  the  hope  without  conviction. 
It  was  a  sort  of  conventional  aside.  I  listened  to 
her  with  the  most  eager  sympathy.  I  had  never  seen 
such  a  girl. 

"  WeU,  you  know  how  these  things  go  on  board 
ship.  Friendships  spring  up  very  suddenly.  A 
smile,  a  few  polite  words,  an  endless  conversation  — 
how  quickly  they  follow  one  another!  And  as  for 
me  —  how  can  I  tell  you  what  I  felt  ?  Everything 
seemed  changed.  I  ran  about  the  ship,  laughing, 
talking  to  all  I  met.  My  uncle  was  vastly  amused. 
Let  him  be  —  I  didn't  care,  not  a  bit !  And  the  sea 
grew  calm  and  the  air  warm,  and  every  night  the 
stars  glittered  more  brightly.  Ah,  that  was  when 
we  talked!  She  would  fetch  a  light  wrap  from  her 
cabin  and  come  fluttering  along  the  deck  like  a  moth. 
We  leant  over  the  rail  and  we  saw  the  sea  phospho- 
rescent beneath  us  and  the  undulating  reflections  of 
the  stars.  Not  a  tremor  shook  the  masts  outlined 
darkly  against  the  sky.  It  was  wonderful.  She 
would  tell  me  about  her  home  and  about  the  negroes 
singing  in  the  dusk  and  about  the  frogs  bubbling 
amongst  the  reeds.  I  listened.  A  new  world  opened 
at  my  feet. 

"  *  Go  on,  tell  me  more,'  I  urged  her ;  '  tell  me 
everything.' 

275 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


But  all  at  once  she  would  stop. 

"  *  Wait  for  me ;  I  must  go  and  look  after 
father.' 

"  I  waited,  cursing  her  father.  Truly  a  most  de- 
testable old  man!  I  must  explain  that  no  sooner 
had  he  been  received  back  into  the  fold  (if  you  can 
call  a  poker  party  a  fold)  than  he  began  to  assume 
a  distant  and  mysterious  air.  No  more  confidential 
whispers,  no,  indeed,  but  only  elaborate  bows  and 
clearings  of  the  throat.  I  need  hardly  say  that  he 
avoided  all  reference  to  our  former  conversation.  I 
was  thankful  but  rather  hurt.  He  had  evidently 
dismissed  the  whole  affair.  Oh,  yes,  I  can  quite  un- 
derstand. After  all  he  had  not  behaved  in  a  digni- 
fied way  and  it  became  more  and  more  evident  that 
dignity  was  his  chief  forte.  He  used  to  irritate  my 
poor  uncle  almost  to  madness,  but  I  must  say  he  bore 
it  very  well.  (He,  too,  was  a  great  admirer  of  Pris- 
cilla.)  Sometimes,  however,  when  he  came  into  the 
cabin  very  late  from  a  game  of  poker  there  would  be 
a  fine  to-do.  Old  Goodenough  had  been  making 

*  personal  explanations  '  all  the  evening.     My  uncle 
would  tear  off  his   clothes,   fuming  and  stamping. 

*  It's    poker,    not    parliament ! '    he    would    exclaim 
wrathfully ;  *  besides,  I  wish  he  wouldn't  breathe  in 
my  face.'     Then  he  would  add  sardonically,  '  And 
it's  all  owing  to  you,  my  son.'     But  at  breakfast  the 
next  morning  he  would  treat  the  old  man  in  that 

276 


Nineteen 

hearty  way  of  his  which  endeared  him  to  every  one 
—  even  to  the  niggers  he  swindled,  I  daresay.  Mr. 
Goodenough  never  unbent.  In  courteous  phrases  he 
would  wish  my  uncle  '  A  very  good  morning  and  to 
you,  young  sir,  another  day  of  enjoyment.'  Of 
course,  it  was  absurd  —  especially  as  he  was  always 
the  first  to  arrive  at  the  poker  table  (he  used  to 
carry  about  with  him  two  of  the  greasiest  pack  of 
cards  I  have  ever  seen),  and  even  at  that  early  hour 
smelt  of  spirits  to  a  certain  modified  extent.  As  my 
uncle  used  to  say,  *  You  could  tell  what  the  time  was 
when  he  breathed  on  you.* 

"  Yes,  it  was  absurd  and  rather  pathetic.  I  sup- 
pose he  imagined  he  was  regaining  his  dignity.  I 
would  catch  in  his  eyes  occasionally  that  sly,  watch- 
ful look  I  had  noticed  before.  And  yet  there  was 
another  man  beneath  all  this,  beneath  the  drunkard, 
beneath  the  bore  —  the  man  his  daughter  used  to 
know  and  still  love.  For  she  did  still  love  him.  It 
was  self-evident.  You  could  see  the  look  of  pain 
when  he  made  himself  ridiculous.  She  treated  him 
with  great  gentleness.  She  would  defer  to  him  in  his 
most  sententious  moments.  She  had  the  gift  of  tact, 
the  tact  which  conceals  pity.  And  even  to  me,  after 
that  one  confidence  which  had  been,  as  it  were,  torn 
from  her,  she  never  alluded  to  him  with  anything  but 
affection.  *  Dear  Father,'  she  would  say,  '  he  leans 
on  me  a  great  deal.'  She  would  smile,  but  without  a 

277 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


trace  of  condescension.     *  I  have  been  away  too  long 
—  I  shan't  leave  him  any  more.'  .  .  . 

Ill 

"  But  where  am  I  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  was  telling  you  how 
she  would  go  off  suddenly  to  see  what  her  father 
was  doing.  Of  course,  she  knew  what  he  was  doing 
quite  well  —  he  was  playing  poker.  But  she  liked  to 
run  into  the  smoking-room  for  an  instant  to  give  him 
a  cheery  word.  She  was  that  sort  of  girl.  Pres- 
ently she  would  return  and  we  would  continue  our 
talk.  We  would  stroll  up  and  down  or  sit  in  a  shel- 
tered part  of  the  deck.  I  would  speak  to  her  of  our 
farm,  of  cows,  and  rabbits,  of  bathing  in  the  peaty 
streams,  and  of  tickling  little  trout.  The  sing-song 
voice  of  the  man  in  the  bows  would  resound,  the  bells 
would  strike,  and  the  late  moon,  rising  gloriously 
over  the  sea,  would  illuminate  a  phantom  ship.  How 
time  slipped  away  from  us !  Soon  the  stars  would 
wane  and  the  air,  growing  cooler,  would  caress  our 
cheeks  as  though  with  the  breath  of  dawn. 

"  *  I  must  go  now,'  she  would  murmur  at  last. 

"  '  No,  not  yet,'  I  would  answer.  '  Why  must  you 
go?' 

"  Slowly  she  would  shake  her  head  and,  rising,  look 
upon  me  for  a  second  and  be  gone. 

"  All  was  still.  Like  a  great  silver  ingot  the 
moonlight  lay  heavy  upon  the  water.  The  ship  slum- 

278 


Nineteen 

bered  and  the  even  beating  of  her  heart  mingled  in 
my  ears  with  the  low  murmur  of  the  sea. 

"  You  must  not  run  away  with  the  idea  that  we 
made  love  to  one  another  —  not  consciously.  No 
such  word  crossed  our  lips.  Long  after  she  had  gone 
below  I  would  sit  there  thinking  of  her  and  of  her 
home.  Only  a  few  days  more  and  I  should  be  there 
myself.  A  few  days  ...  I  shivered  with  joy.  I 
was  not  sleepy.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  before  me  the 
whole,  boundless  world  seemed  to  await  my  coming, 
seemed  to  smile.  ...  I  would  be  roused  out  of  this 
reverie  by  the  sound  of  voices  raised  in  altercation. 
The  smoking-room  door  would  bang,  glasses  jangle, 
and  above  the  hubbub  a  dignified,  protesting  voice  — 
silence  —  an  unpleasant  laugh.  I  would  get  up, 
scowling  with  annoyance.  Old  Goodenough  had  been 
making  another  scene.  .  .  . 

"  We  were  popular,  my  uncle  and  I.  I'm  sure  of 
that.  I  spent  many  an  hour  in  the  officers'  cabins, 
hearing  the  stories  of  their  lives,  looking  at  faded 
photographs  and  at  others  not  at  all  faded  and 
hardly  respectable.  They  were  a  good  set.  They 
talked  about  the  islands  and  of  the  girls  they  knew. 
They  used  to  spin  extremely  long,  vague,  and  point- 
less yarns  about  spare  afternoons  in  Southampton. 
But  then,  too,  they  would  speak  of  Trinidad  and 
Caracas,  of  warm,  scented  nights,  and  of  banjo  ser- 
enades. Think  of  it ! 

279 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  The  days  sped  by.  I  knew  every  one  on  board, 
officers  and  passengers  alike.  There  were  no  idle 
minutes  for  me.  I  rose  early  and  I  went  to  bed  late. 
I  slept  like  a  top.  I  had  never  known  such  a  feeling 
of  health.  We  got  down  to  the  region  of  azure  seas 
and  flying  fish,  where  great  flat  skates  leap  out  of 
the  ocean  and  the  Sargasso  weed  trails  upon  the 
water.  The  saloon  was  like  an  oven.  We  almost 
lived  on  deck.  In  the  afternoon  we  would  play 
cricket  and  make  a  rush  for  the  cold  baths.  It  was 
useless  —  one  perspired  anew  before  one  had  finished 
drying.  Trifles !  Others  might  care  —  I  didn't. 
Wasn't  the  whole  world  before  me?  Besides  it  would 
be  night  again  soon.  I  would  wave  to  Priscilla,  sit- 
ting cool  and  fair  in  her  green  linen  dress.  We 
would  meet.  .  .  . 

"  In  the  long  hour  before  dinner  the  decks  were 
deserted.  The  whole  West  suddenly  flamed  and  the 
sun  fell,  like  a  burning  rocket,  into  the  sea.  Night 
had  come,  the  swift  night  of  the  Tropics,  and  the 
stars,  rushing  out  over  the  sky,  seemed  to  expand 
and  glow  before  the  breath  of  an  invisible  bellows.  I 
would  watch,  entranced.  From  beneath  people  would 
emerge,  one  by  one,  and,  pointing  here  and  there, 
would  make  suitable  comments.  But  at  the  sound 
of  the  bugle  they  disappeared  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
—  I,  also,  to  be  quite  frank.  We  ate  our  dinners  with 
relish.  Knives  clattered;  people  discussed  the  af- 

280 


Nineteen 

fairs  of  the  voyage,  laughing  good-naturedly.  But 
somehow  I  could  never  talk  to  Priscilla  at  meals.  I 
avoided  her  eye.  I  let  my  uncle  do  all  the  speaking. 
He  would  tell  us  stories  —  old  Goodenough  would 
nod,  clearing  his  throat.  The  doctor  at  the  head  of 
the  table  invariably  thought  that  he  saw  an  arriere 
pensee,  and  would  half  choke  in  the  middle  of  a 
mouthful.  It  was  no  use  my  uncle  assuring  him  in 
private  that  there  had  been  none  —  not  the  least 
good.  '  You'll  be  the  death  of  me,'  he  would  ex- 
claim rapturously ;  *  what  a  man,  what  a  man ! '  (  He 
was  one  of  the  rarer  types  of  ship's  doctor,  an  obese 
middle-aged  man  who  had  spent  most  of  his  life  at 
sea  —  not  one  of  your  novices  or  land-failures,  but  a 
real  personality.) 

"  And  then  the  nights.  .  .  .  She  spoke  —  I  lis- 
tened to  her  voice  telling  me  of  the  South.  It  was 
always  of  the  South,  never  of  Milan.  She  had  intui- 
tion. .  .  . 

"  But  at  length,  ah,  all  too  soon,  there  came  the 
time  when  I  had  to  say  to  her,  *  To-morrow  we  shall 
be  watching  for  your  lights.' 

"  *  Yes,'  she  answered,  and  nothing  more. 

"  A  chill  seemed  to  have  fallen.  Should  I  speak 
of  parting?  I  wondered.  No,  not  yet.  I  must  put 
it  out  of  my  mind.  I  did  —  fortunate  nineteen ! 

"  I  will  tell  you  about  our  last  night.  .  .  .  Eight 
bells  had  just  struck.  It  was  very  dark  and  warm, 

281 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


and  so  still  was  the  whole  sea  that  the  stars  seemed 
to  hang  motionless  above  the  ship.  She  went  on  at 
half-speed  as  silently  as  a  cat,  while  the  grizzled 
quartermaster,  who  had  been  collecting  deck-chairs 
with  an  expression  of  profound  contempt,  slowly 
stretched  his  arms,  and,  spitting  over  the  side, 
stumped  away  forward.  The  officer  of  the  watch, 
silhouetted  clearly  against  the  sky,  stopped  for  an 
instant  to  gaze  downwards,  and  then,  resuming  his 
march,  disappeared  leisurely  behind  the  shadow  of  the 
wheel-house. 

"  We  had  observed  them  from  a  nook  of  the  deck, 
screened  by  a  boat.  It  was  I  who  had  been  doing  the 
speaking.  I  felt  in  a  strange,  exultant  mood.  The 
nearness  of  the  shore,  the  sight  of  the  girl  sitting 
there  with  downcast  eyes  and  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  the  stillness  around,  the  gleam  of  her  white 
dress  —  it  was  an  intoxication.  I  had  been  telling 
her  about  myself  in  a  way  I  had  never  done  before. 
Softly  and  rapidly  I  was  whispering.  The  silence 
terrified  me  and  filled  me  with  joy.  I  had  an  ex- 
traordinary wish  to  tell  her  every  desire  and  thought 
in  my  heart  —  above  all  not  to  stop,  but  to  go  on 
and  on.  Do  you  know,  I  felt  that  if  I  were  to  stop 
I  might  begin  to  cry ! 

"First  love,  do  you  say?  —  well,  perhaps.  But 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  was  a  more  complicated  emo- 
tion than  that.  It  was  as  though  I  felt  the  first 

282 


Nineteen 

breath  of  the  tropics  on  my  cheek,  the  first  breath 
.  .  .  do  you  understand?  But  Priscilla  —  she  sat 
there  listening  to  me,  not  moving.  She  was  part  of 
the  spell.  She  was  the  Fairy  Princess  of  a  vision. 
You  know  how  young  girls  can  sit  and  listen  to  you 
and  you  see  them  smiling  very  faintly  and  it's  exactly 
as  if  they  had  some  thought  which  you  could  never 
understand.  That  was  Priscilla.  But  at  last  she 
spoke,  gently  and  slowly,  and,  raising  her  eyes,  she 
let  them  fall  upon  me  like  a  beam. 

"  *  Why  do  you  tell  me  all  this  ?  To-morrow  is 
good-bye  for  us.' 

"  *  But  it's  not  true.  We're  not  going  to  say 
good-bye.  I  shall  come  again.' 

"  She  shook  her  head. 

"  '  Listen  to  me,'  I  protested.  *  I  swear  to  come 
again.' 

"  But  once  more  she  shook  her  head  as  she  asked 
me,  '  Are  you  to  spend  a  night  on  the  island  ?  ' 

"  *  Yes,  at  the  hotel.     My  uncle  has  arranged  it.' 

"  *  Then  will  you  —  will  you  come  and  see  me?  '  she 
murmured. 

"  At  your  house?     Oh,  may  I?  ' 

"  I  simply  couldn't  find  words. 

"  She  had  risen  and  gone  before  I  knew  what  had 
happened. 

"  '  Yes,  I  shall  come  back  again,'  I. repeated  to  my- 
self. 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


"  And  suddenly  I  heard  a  shout.  I  sprang  up 
and,  peering  ahead,  I  saw  a  red  light  like  a  star  upon 
the  east.  Some  one  passed  me  on  deck,  calling  over 
his  shoulder,  '  Why,  we're  there ! '  We  must  have 
slowed  completely  down,  for  we  seemed  to  be  only 
creeping  through  the  water.  The  light,  growing 
larger,  appeared  to  swing  round  and  hide  behind  us. 
Other  lights  started  from  the  sea,  and  in  the  distance 
a  dim  mass  of  rock  or  forest  rose  and  put  out  the 
stars.  A  wind  came  off  the  land,  sweet,  exotic,  full 
of  wild  and  earthy  smells. 

"  We  anchored  in  the  open  roadstead.  A  little 
tug  waddled  out  from  the  port,  her  quick,  feverish 
beats  echoing  over  the  bay,  and  some  one  standing  up 
in  the  bows  exchanged  words  with  our  captain. 
Then  some  one  else,  dressed  all  in  white  with  a  pith 
helmet,  suddenly  jumped  up  by  his  side  and  called 
out  in  a  stentorian  voice,  '  Have  you  got  Mrs.  Greg- 
ory on  board? '  I  don't  know  what  answer  was 
given,  but  I  know  I  burst  out  laughing.  Fancy,  com- 
ing from  that  mysterious  land  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Gregory 
was  on  board !  Preposterous  ! 

"  But  presently  the  tug  steamed  off  and  the  ship, 
riding  at  anchor,  rested  all  silent  and  secure.  I  was 
feeling  sleepy  at  last  —  the  lights  smouldered  upon 
the  shore  —  every  sound  was  hushed.  Time  for 
bed.  ... 

"  I  woke  at  the  very  hour  of  sunrise  and,  scram- 
284 


Nineteen 

bling  out  of  my  bunk,  dressed  and  ran  up  on  deck. 
Never  shall  I  forget  that  moment.  The  whole  island 
lay  before  me  in  the  pale  light  of  dawn.  Clear,  frag- 
ile, beautiful  beyond  words,  it  was  like  a  mirage  that 
would  pass  away  at  a  breath.  The  sea  reflected  it 
upon  its  cold  surface  and  all  the  palms  upon  the  j  ut- 
ting  sand  rose  stiff  and  motionless  as  the  trees  of  a 
Dutch  landscape.  The  forest  had  a  primrose  tint 
and  the  red-white  houses  along  the  shore  stood  out 
like  painted  toys. 

"  *  A  morning  for  the  gods,  young  sir,'  said  a  hate- 
ful voice  behind  me. 

"  I  spun  round  and  saw  before  me  the  crimson 
countenance  of  Mr.  Goodenough.  He  was  still  in  his 
evening  clothes  and  must  have  been  playing  cards  all 
night.  I  suppose  that  every  fairy  story  has  its 
ogre,  but  there  is  something  particularly  distasteful 
about  an  ogre  that  smells  of  rum  in  the  purity  of  the 
dawn. 

"  *  The  home  of  my  youth,'  he  added  grandilo- 
quently, flourishing  his  hand,  *  and  here  I  shall  die, 
please  God.' 

"  '.  .  .  please  God,'  I  echoed  below  my  breath. 

"  He  left  me  with  a  bow,  but  the  spell  was  broken. 
The  ogre  had  done  his  work.  I  stepped  below  and 
lay  down  on  the  couch. 


285 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


IV 

"  A  few  hours  later,  when  I  went  up  with  my 
uncle,  all  was  changed.  The  day  had  risen  in 
splendor.  Boats  full  of  negroes  surrounded  the  ship, 
every  passenger  seemed  to  be  on  deck,  people  were 
shouting,  making  arrangements,  exchanging  fare- 
wells. Stewards  were  piling  luggage  on  the  after 
deck,  an  old  lady  was  loudly  bewailing  the  loss  of 
a  green  purse,  a  parrot  in  a  cage  was  screaming.  It 
was  pandemonium.  My  uncle,  who  was  in  his  ele- 
ment in  this  sort  of  thing,  went  from  group  to  group 
cracking  jokes.  Then,  calling  on  me  to  follow  him, 
he  elbowed  his  way  to  the  dining-saloon.  There,  at 
our  table,  we  found  the  Goodenoughs  having  a  last 
breakfast.  Old  Goodenough  had  got  himself  up  in 
a  grey  suit  and  a  magnificent  white  topper.  It  gave 
him  quite  a  commanding  presence,  especially  as  you 
saw  a  great  expanse  of  linen  waistcoat.  My  uncle 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  full  of  good  humour  at 
the  thought  of  getting  rid  of  him.  Priscilla,  who 
had  not  looked  up  from  her  plate,  suddenly  rose  and 
went  out  of  the  saloon.  I  hesitated  a  moment,  then, 
seeing  that  my  uncle  and  her  father  were  talking  en- 
ergetically at  one  end  of  the  table,  I  followed  her. 
She  was  waiting  for  me  outside. 

"  *  I  wanted  to  give  you  this,'  she  said,  quite 
simply. 

286 


Nineteen 

"  It  was  a  scrap  of  paper  with  the  name  of  her 
father's  plantation  on  it. 

"  *  To-night,'  I  answered,  holding  her  hand  for  an 
instant. 

"  '  There  is  a  gate  opposite  the  very  end  of  the 
point,'  she  said,  looking  away. 

"  '  At  six  o'clock.' 

"  «  Yes,  at  six.' 

"  *  And  I  shall  come  again,  you  know,'  I  added. 

"  She  gave  me  suddenly  a  stern  and  inquiring 
glance. 

"  *  What  are  they  worth,  all  these  promises  of 
yours  ?  '  she  muttered  passionately.  '  Don't  make 
them !  Only  —  only,  to-night ! ' 

"  She  frowned  and  went  away  from  me  without  an- 
other word. 

"  I  did  not  move  till  I  heard  my  uncle  calling  for 
me  again.  We  were  to  go  on  shore  at  once,  in  time 
for  breakfast.  So  presently  we  were  in  a  boat  (I 
carrying  a  little  bag  that  held  our  clothes  for  the 
night)  and  were  being  rowed  by  two  darkies  across 
the  bay.  I  let  my  hand  ripple  in  the  blue  water. 
The  darkies  jabbered,  their  ebony  bodies  glistening 
through  their  cotton  rags,  while  my  uncle,  lying  well 
back  in  the  stern,  drew  in  deep,  luxurious  breaths 
and  stretched  himself  at  ease.  But  I  —  I  simply 
devoured  the  shore.  As  it  drew  nearer  it  shaped 
itself  into  a  tiny  harbour  with  clustering  warehouses 

287 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


and  a  crowd  of  gesticulating  negroes  upon  the  quay. 
A  mingling  of  bright  colours  gave  an  air  of  gaiety 
to  those  dark  and  smiling  ranks.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  new  world,  the  world  of  my  dreams,  more  thrilling 
to  me  than  all  the  ruins  of  ancient  civilisation.  We 
landed  at  some  wooden  steps  and  in  a  few  minutes 
were  in  a  narrow,  winding  street  full  of  grocers'  and 
drapers'  stores.  Laden  donkeys  walked  sedately 
upon  the  stone  cobbles,  a  Chinese  gentleman  in  gold 
spectacles  and  a  brown  suit  sat  very  upright  in  a 
buggy  driven  by  a  negro  groom,  a  big  policeman 
shouted  at  some  negresses  carrying  baskets  of  wash- 
ing on  their  heads.  Flamboyant  advertisements 
covered  every  shop  window,  and  all  the  chille  sellers 
on  the  pavement  were  gabbling  like  so  many  geese. 
The  face  of  a  new  world  indeed ! 

"  *  We'll  go  to  Thorpe's,'  said  my  uncle,  as  though 
it  were  the  most  ordinary  proceeding. 

"  We  suddenly  cut  down  to  our  left  and  emerged 
from  the  street  of  cobbles  into  one  of  white  loam,  full 
of  sticky  and  cloying  smells. 

"  '  Here  we  are,'  said  my  uncle,  entering  a  ware- 
house whose  subdued  light  showed  a  row  of  bulging 
sacks  in  a  far  corner.  We  crossed  it,  mounted  a 
rickety  staircase,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  big  room 
furnished  with  a  bar,  a  few  tables  and  several  brass 
spittoons.  Through  the  green  jalousies  rays  of 
shimmering  light  fell  across  the  floor.  Behind  the 

288 


Nineteen 

bar    a    seedy-looking    Italian    was    dusting    bottles. 

"  *  You  just  wait,'  whispered  my  uncle,  as  though 
he  expected  me  to  be  disappointed.  Then  going  up 
to  the  bar  he  roared  like  a  bull,  *  Hey,  Alberto,  you 
son  of  a  gun,  you  remember  me,  don't  you?  ' 

*'  Alberto  spun  around  and  almost  fell  into  his 
arms  with  joy. 

"  My  uncle  plied  him  with  questions. 

"  *  Well,  now,  get  us  something  to  eat,'  he  wound 
up ;  *  grill  us  some  of  those  flying-fish  of  yours,  and, 
I  say,  Alberto,  make  us  some  lime-squashes,  big  ones 
—  you  know.' 

"  Alberto  fled,  while  my  uncle,  walking  like  a  king 
across  the  room,  rolled  up  one  of  the  blinds  and  sat 
down  in  the  sunlight. 

"<  That's  the  way  to  do  it,  Ted,'  he  observed 
calmly. 

"  Ah,  and  we  had  a  breakfast,  too !  Flying-fish 
caught  that  morning  seven  miles  from  shore,  soft, 
spongy  bread  of  the  tropics  and  Danish  butter  from 
a  tin,  fresh  lime-squashes,  sucked  up  slowly  through 
coarse  straws,  and  then,  at  the  finish,  pulpy  mangoes 
smelling  of  pine  needles. 

"  *  We'll  go  for  a  drive  now,'  said  my  uncle. 
*  Alberto,  be  a  good  fellow ;  run  down  and  get  us  a 
carriage.' 

"  Alberto  went  like  a  streak. 

"  *  That  man  would  fetch  the  devil  for  me  if  I 
289 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


asked  him,'  exclaimed  my  uncle ;  '  what  shall  I  give 
him? '  He  winked  at  me.  *  There  are  two  secrets 
of  willing  service,'  he  added,  digging  me  in  the  ribs, 
*  one's  good  nature  and  the  other's  good  money.  Re- 
memeber  that,  my  son.' 

"  Alberto  got  us  a  carriage  in  no  time  —  a  sort  of 
ramshackle  landau,  driven  by  an  old  darkie  wearing 
spectacles  and  pulled  by  two  yellowy-white  horses 
with  all  their  ribs  showing.  Never  mind,  it  did  us 
very  well!  We  drove  out  into  the  country  in  great 
style.  We  saw  sugar  fields  and  palms  waving  on  the 
beach  and  glimpses  of  coral  reefs  and  shelving  seas. 
And  we  saw  the  little  wooden  homesteads,  with  their 
swarms  of  startled  pickaninnies,  and  their  black  pigs, 
and  their  grubbing  hens.  And  away  beyond,  the 
green  hills,  covered  with  bush,  rose  against  the 
cloudless  sky.  The  dust  flew  and  the  flies  buzzed 
round  us  in  the  heat.  The  road  wound  between 
banks  or  like  a  broad  highway  above  the  fields, 
dazzling  white  and  glistening  afar  like  a  metal  rib- 
bon. Lizards  basked  upon  stones  and  painted  birds 
flashed  before  us  with  discordant  cries. 

"  *  Drive  us  right  out  to  Gunaway's,'  shouted  my 
uncle  at  last. 

"  The  driver  grinned,  cracked  his  whip,  gave  a 
terrific  whoop,  and  the  miserable  horses  broke  into 
a  shambling  gallop.  In  a  short  time  we  arrived  be- 
fore a  square,  unadorned  hotel  built  near  the  sea 

290 


Nineteen 

and  looking,  though  not  at  all  new,  as  if  it  had  been 
left  by  the  workmen  before  it  had  been  properly 
finished  off.  A  lot  of  little  black,  starling-like  birds 
were  walking  cheekily  up  and  down  outside  the 
veranda.  They  all  rose  together  as  a  tall,  stout 
man  with  a  squint  came  down  the  steps  to  meet  us. 

" '  You've  arrived  by  the  boat,  gentlemen,'  he  an- 
nounced, rather  with  the  air  of  saying,  '  Now  don't 
deny  it  —  I  know  everything.' 

"  *  You're  right,  Mr.  Gunaway,'  answered  my 
uncle ;  *  but  you  haven't  forgotten  me,  have  you  ?  ' 

"  Mr.  Gunaway  spat  with  great  deliberation. 

"  '  No,  mister,  I  haven't  forgotten  you  —  I  don't 
forget  anybody  —  but  I  can't  —  er  —  can't  place 
you.' 

"  My  uncle  went  up  to  him,  took  him  by  the  arm, 
and  walked  away  with  him  a  few  yards.  In  a  couple 
of  minutes  they  came  back  smiling  broadly. 

"  *.  .  .  and  so  it  was  you  —  well,  I  always 
suspected  —  through  the  bank,  you  know  —  Port  of 
Spain  —  a  piece  of  luck  .  .  .'  I  overheard.  It  was 
Gunaway  who  had  been  speaking.  Whom  hadn't  my 
uncle  done  business  with  in  his  time? 

"  '  Ted,'  said  he,  joining  me  again,  *  Mr.  Gunaway 
will  give  us  some  lunch  presently.'  He  nudged  the 
hotelkeeper.  We  had  a  lunch  once,  didn't  we, 
Gunaway,'  he  added  slyly.  Both  men  laughed. 

"  *  Well,  gentlemen,  I  must  leave  you  now,'  said 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


Gunaway ;  '  pray  make  yourselves  at  home  till  lunch- 
time.' 

"  He  walked  back  into  the  house. 

"  '  Would  you  believe  it,  Ted,'  said  my  uncle  as  we 
watched  his  retreating  form,  *  that  fellow's  got  some 
of  the  finest  sparkling  burgundy  you  ever  tasted.' 

"  We  strolled  about  for  some  time  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  hall  and  sat  on  bamboo  chairs  and  read 
ancient  numbers  of  The  Graphic.  It  was  the  off  sea- 
son in  the  island  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  visitors 
in  the  hotel.  '  So  much  the  better,'  said  my  uncle. 
If  it  had  been  full  he  would  have  made  precisely  the 
same  remark.  He  was  optimistic  by  nature.  We 
were  favoured  at  luncheon  by  the  company  of  Mr. 
Gunaway  and  his  wife  —  a  woman  with  enormous 
hips  and  a  pale,  freckled  face.  It  wasn't  a  bad  meal, 
though  Mrs.  Gunaway  did  nothing  to  help  the  con- 
versation except  to  remark,  with  considerable  heat, 
that  the  pickled  onions  had  been  opened  for  too  long, 
and  though  Gunaway  and  my  uncle  had  some  joke 
which  I  couldn't  fathom  in  the  least,  but  which  I  am 
pretty  certain  referred  to  a  monetary  transaction 
in  the  past.  No,  it  wasn't  the  company  I  liked;  it 
was  the  food  and  the  silent  darkie  of  a  waiter  with 
his  pale  palms  and  crinkled  hair.  We  drank  several 
bottles  of  the  famous  burgundy.  Heady  stuff  it  was, 
too!  I  was  glad  enough  to  lie  down  after  lunch. 
There,  in  a  sort  of  trance,  I  rested  on  my  bed  listen- 

292 


Nineteen 

ing  to  the  chatter  of  the  tropicals.  This,  then,  was 
the  Tropics !  Just  to  think  of  it  gave  me  an  in- 
credulous sensation.  Impossible!  I  got  up,  walked 
on  tiptoe  across  the  room,  and  pulling  aside  a  corner 
of  the  blind,  I  saw  the  island  and  the  sea  lying  bright 
and  still  in  the  fierce  glare.  It  was  like  a  sudden 
revelation  of  something  I  had  never  seen  before. 
The  Tropics ! 

"  I  dozed  at  last,  only  to  wake  up  in  a  perspira- 
tion. Some  thought  or  other  was  troubling  me. 
Yes,  what  was  it  that  had  come  like  that  into  my 
sleep?  I  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  staring  at 
the  floor.  And  all  at  once  I  remembered  —  Pris- 
cilla.  I  was  overwhelmed  with  shame.  I  had  for- 
gotten all  about  her  till  then.  I  recalled  the  tone 
of  her  voice,  the  look  of  her  eyes.  Her  girlish  figure 
seemed  to  haunt  the  shadowy  room.  '  I  am  to  meet 
her  at  six,'  I  thought,  smiling  blissfully.  '  Yes,  this 
is  love,'  I  continued  to  myself.  '  It  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  live  without  her.'  The  very  hint  of  such  a 
thing  made  me  shiver.  *  Good  God,  how  I  love  her ! ' 
I  whispered. 

"  I  jumped  up,  ran  downstairs  and  demanded  of 
the  nigger  in  the  hall  how  I  should  get  to  the  point. 
He  assumed  a  worried  and  dejected  appearance  (I 
had  come  upon  him  in  what  seemed  an  attitude  of 
profound  thought,  but  which  was,  1  fear,  the  still- 
ness of  complete  vacuity),  but  after  I  had  repeated 

298 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


the  question  half  a  dozen  times  he  suddenly  appeared 
to  wake  up,  and  showing  me  all  his  teeth  in  one 
colossal  grin. 

"  '  Why,  massa,  you  follow  dat  dere  road  along 
de  coast  and  den  when  you  come  to  de  point  —  why, 
dere  you  are  at  de  point.' 

"  I  thanked  him  and  was  turning  back  from  the 
veranda  when  whom  should  I  see  being  driven  towards 
us  than  the  ship's  doctor?  His  fat,  jolly  form  quite 
filled  the  little  seat  of  the  buggy  and  he  was  mopping 
his  face  with  a  huge  bandana. 

"  *  Hulloa,  doctor,'  I  shouted ;  '  have  you  come  up 
to  have  tea  with  us?  ' 

"  *  Tea !  —  Oh,  Lord,  in  my  state !  Soda-water, 
you  mean.  But  where's  that  uncle  of  yours  ?  Look 
here,  I've  important  news  for  you.  I've  come  to 
warn  you  that  they've  changed  the  sailing  hour. 
We're  off  to-night  at  ten  o'clock.' 

"  *  At  ten  o'clock?  '  I  muttered. 

"  He  lifted  himself  painfully  out  of  his  seat  and 
advanced  up  the  steps. 

"  '  Well,  where's  your  uncle?  *  he  repeated,  laugh- 
ing at  my  look  of  consternation. 

"  I  told  him  that  I  didn't  rightly  know  where  he 
was,  as  I  had  been  lying  down,  but  that  if  he  would  sit 
there  on  the  veranda  I  would  go  and  search  for 
him.  *  All  in  good  time,'  he  said,  '  he'll  turn  up  be- 
fore long.  What  a  man!  Not  letting  the  grass 

294 


Nineteen 

grow,  I'll  be  bound.     Ah,  thank  goodness ! '  he  con- 
cluded, as  he  sank  into  a  chair. 


"  We  sat  there  overlooking  the  road,  a  field  of 
mealies  and  the  curving  sea.  I  ordered  drinks.  I 
was  glad  to  see  the  old  doctor,  but  I  kept  an  inward 
eye  on  the  time.  Well,  it  was  only  half-past  four  as 
yet.  He  began  to  tell  me  an  endless  story  about 
some  Roumanian  Jewess  he  used  to  know  in  Singa- 
pore (*  What  a  girl  she  was  ! '),  though  why  he  should 
have  wanted  to  tell  me  I  can't  conceive.  He  kept 
wiping  his  face  and  puffing  out  his  cheeks.  I  hardly 
listened  to  him,  because  I  was  thinking  to  myself, 
'  Suppose  she's  not  there?  '  It  was  an  absolutely 
terrible  idea.  The  thought  of  having  to  leave  that 
night  had,  you  know,  suddenly  brought  parting 
frightfully  close.  I  felt  oppressed  by  sadness.  .  .  . 

"  The  doctor  meandered  on  about  his  reminis- 
cences, covering,  as  you  might  say,  the  face  of  the 
globe.  He  had  known  beautiful  women  in  every 
country  and  he  had  adored  them  all.  *  Ah,  well, 
they  pass  out  of  one's  life.'  (He  was  inclined  to  be 
sentimental  this  afternoon. )  Gradually  I  found  my- 
self listening  more  and  more  attentively.  There 
was  much  that  was  extraordinarily  soothing  in  all 
this  to  my  new  philosophy.  *  Yes,  one  has  to  be  a 
fatalist,'  I  thought  to  myself.  At  nineteen  there  is 

295 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


something  enticing  about  the  sadness  of  farewell. 
Beautiful  women  whom  one  has  loved  and  who  are 
but  memories,  the  glamour  of  far-off  lands,  the 
march  of  time  —  with  what  exquisite  melancholy  the 
image  of  them  can  fill  romantic  youth!  I  was  in  a 
frame  of  mind  (since  about  half  an  hour)  to  give 
up  Priscilla  for  the  sheer  luxury  of  remembrance. 

"  In  a  short  time  my  uncle  arrived,  full  of  energy 
and  very  thirsty.  He  greeted  the  doctor  with  a 
mighty  shout  and  heard  the  news  of  our  departure 
with  complacency.  Would  you  believe  it,  he  had  been 
bathing!  He  had  met  there,  on  the  beach,  a  most 
incredible  person  in  the  shape  of  a  Nonconformist 
clergyman  who  had  got  into  earnest  conversation 
with  him  about  the  *  conversion  '  (as  he  named  it) 
of  the  Catholic  blacks  in  San  Domingo.  My  uncle 
had  given  him  a  sovereign  towards  the  cause.  It 
sounds  mere  hypocrisy,  of  course,  but  it  wasn't;  it 
was  simply  the  good  nature  of  over-bounding  vitality. 
They  had  parted  the  best  of  friends.  You  can  guess 
what  a  story  he  managed  to  make  of  it ! 

"  '  Well,  I'm  going  for  a  walk  myself,'  said  I  at 
last,  getting  up  as  unconcernedly  as  I  could. 

"  They  let  me  go  without  a  question,  my  uncle  only 
observing,  *  Dinner  at  7 :30.  I'll  keep  the  doc.  We 
can  all  go  down  together.' 

"  In  half  a  minute  I  was  out  of  their  sight  round 
a  corner  of  the  hotel.  I  followed  the  road  which 

296 


Nineteen 

dipped  to  the  sea  and  skirted  the  shingly  mud  of  the 
foreshore.  What  little  tide  there  was  had  ebbed, 
and  black,'  spidery  crabs  were  scurrying  over  the 
slime  in  all  directions.  The  first  cicalas  of  the  night 
were  waking  in  the  cotton  fields.  The  air,  cooled 
by  the  evening  breeze,  gave  off  a  new  fragrance. 
Far  out  the  sun  glinted  upon  the  unbared  coral  reefs, 
and  I  could  hear  the  torpid  sea  rolling  on  them  with 
a  sort  of  suppressed,  booming  noise.  There  is  no 
real  twilight  in  the  Tropics,  but  the  brilliance  fades 
from  the  upper  sky  and  a  violet  glow  fills  all  the 
darkening  world.  It  is  a  mysterious  time  that  comes 
with  great  swiftness  and  melting  suddenly  into  deep 
night.  The  hour  for  lovers,  you  think.  Yes,  but 
deceptive  like  love  itself,  and,  like  love,  fleeting  and 
too  soon  overcast.  ...  I  won't  soliloquise.  .  .  . 

"  I  got  to  the  point.  The  jungle  had  been  allowed 
to  grow  unfettered  around  it.  A  tangled  mass  of 
undergrowth  bulged  over  the  fencing  and  almost 
hid  the  wicket  gate  facing  the  sea.  In  this  artificial 
reservation  of  Tropical  nature  you  might  have  imag- 
ined yourself  in  the  Brazilian  wilderness.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  strange  it  felt  to  be  standing  there.  I 
undid  the  latch  and  passed  through  the  gate  into 
a  winding  path.  Beyond  its  further  edge  I  could 
see  green  lawns,  a  bamboo  swamp  and  a  long,  low 
building  backed  by  great  red-flowering  trees.  A 
multitude  of  frogs  were  calling  from  the  bamboos.  I 

297 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


stood  and  waited,  quite  overcome  with  trembling.  I 
felt  that  she,  my  beloved,  was  near  me,  though  in- 
visible to  my  sight.  All  at  once,  very  close,  I  heard 
a  rustling,  and,  turning  on  my  heel,  I  saw  her  before 


me. 

(C   « 


So  you've  come ! '  she  said  in  no  friendly  voice. 

"  I  nodded,  breathing  quickly. 

"  *  You  took  the  appointment  seriously,  after  all  ?  ' 
she  continued. 

"  I  was  quite  dumfounded  by  her  tone.  It  was 
really  too  awful.  I  stared  at  her  like  a  sheep. 

"  *  You  haven't  lost  your  voice,  have  you  ?  '  she 
asked.  *  Oh,  how  silly  it  all  seems ! ' 

"  *  But  why  did  you  ask  me  to  come,  then?'  I 
stammered. 

"  '  Listen  to  him !  He's  a  schoolboy.  Whoever 
hear  such  nonsense!  Do  you  hear,'  she  added  furi- 
ously, *  you're  just  a  schoolboy! ' 

"  But  I  suddenly  knew  quite  well  that  all  this 
meant  nothing  at  all.  I  took  her  hand  and  I  said, 
'  Why  do  you  talk  to  me  like  this  —  Pr  is  cilia?  ' 

"  I  had  never  called  her  Pris  cilia  before. 

"  At  these  words  of  mine  the  cloak  seemed  to  fall 
from  her  as  night  from  morning. 

"  *  You  —  you  —  to-night  —  your  steamer,'  she 
gasped  in  a  choking  voice. 

"  « Yes,  but  I  shall  return.' 

"  *  No,  no  —  Ted,'  she  answered  mournfully  and 
298 


Nineteen 

shyly,  '  the  sea  is  too  big.'  She  shivered.  '  There 
—  do  you  hear  it?  It's  washing  over  the  reef. 
Listen  to  it  now!  Listen!  It  will  be  in  my  ears 
night  and  day.  It's  desolate,  desolate,  like  I  am.' 

"  *  Priscilla,  dear,  this  is  not  the  end,'  I  mur- 
mured. 

"  She  did  not  notice  my  words,  but  she  suddenly 
smiled. 

"  '  I  never  thought  you  would  come,'  she  whispered 
tenderly,  *  I  had  given  up  hope.  And  then,  seeing 
you  like  this  —  oh,  don't,  don't ! ' 

"  She  did  not  withdraw  her  hand,  which  I  had  be- 
gun to  kiss,  but,  bending  sideways,  she  let  her  tears 
fall  upon  the  ground. 

"  It  had  grown  dark  apace,  and  through  the 
branches  of  the  thicket  the  sky  appeared  deep  blue 
and  crowded  with  stars.  The  whole  night  of  the 
Tropics  was  awake  with  thousands  of  stridulating 
insects  and  golden  flies. 

"  *  Come  with  me  on  to  the  beach,'  I  said  to  her. 

"  And  there,  upon  the  firm  sand,  we  sat  for  an 
hour  that  went  quickly  as  a  minute.  Oh,  elusive 
happiness!  Only  a  minute  and  I  was  watching  her, 
lonely  and  white,  against  the  blackness  of  the  sea. 
Only  a  minute.  It  was  all  over.  Turning,  I  fled 
blindly  from  her  down  the  road. 

"  It  was  nearly  eight  when  I  got  back  to  the 
hotel.  All  distraught  as  I  was,  I  ran  up  to  my  room, 

299 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


threw  everything  into  the  bag,  plunged  my  face  in 
water  and  rushed  downstairs  to  the  dining-room. 
My  uncle  and  the  doctor  had  nearly  finished.  I 
mumbled  some  excuse  about  having  lost  my  way  and, 
as  they  hadn't  suspected  anything,  they  probably 
believed  me.  We  sat  at  a  table  opposite  French 
windows  that  had  been  thrown  wide  open.  Two 
blacks,  dressed  in  spotless  duck,  with  serious  and 
preoccupied  faces,  waited  upon  us.  The  murmur  of 
the  night  filled  the  room,  and  in  the  outer  darkness 
fireflies  were  glimmering  in  the  poinsettia  bushes.  A 
faint  breeze  stirred  like  a  fan. 

"  My  uncle  was  telling  the  doctor  a  breathless 
story  about  how  he  had  once  interviewed  the  King 
of  Dahomey.  I  know  for  certain  that  there  was  not 
a  word  of  truth  in  it,  though  why  he  should  have 
been  at  the  trouble  to  invent  it  is  a  psychological 
puzzle,  as  he  actually  had  done  just  as  exciting 
things.  But  perhaps  it  was  simply  a  way  of  working 
off  superfluous  energy.  Anyhow,  it  was  lucky  for 
me,  as  it  kept  them  from  noticing  my  agitation. 
They  went  on  talking  and  smoking  cigars  while  I 
hurried  through  the  different  courses.  After  a  time 
we  heard  the  clatter  of  a  carriage  at  the  front  steps. 

"  *  That'll  be  for  us,'  said  my  uncle;  *  you  go  and 
see,  Ted,  and  get  the  bag  down.' 

"  The  doctor  was  so  absorbed  in  the  story  that 
he  merely  grunted  and  wiped  his  forehead.  I'm  sure 

800 


Nineteen 

he'd  have  been  quite  prepared  to  miss  the  boat. 
When  I  came  back  in  a  minute  to  tell  them  that  it 
was  our  carriage  and  that  everything  was  ready,  he 
was  asking  my  uncle  whether  he  had  seen  many  hand- 
some women  in  Dahomey.  Incorrigible  man  ! 

"  The  proprietor  saw  us  off.  His  manner  was 
affability  itself.  '  Come  again,'  he  shouted  after 
us,  and  then  in  a  louder  voice,  *  I'm  always  to  be  re- 
lied on.'  I  was  sitting  beside  the  driver,  but  I  could 
hear  the  chuckle  my  uncle  gave.  '  Some  new  plan 
or  other,'  I  thought  astutely.  Well,  maybe,  but  I 
never  head  anything  more. 

"  Contrary  to  the  usual  habit  of  negroes  the  driver 
looked  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left.  We 
passed  into  the  darkness  at  a  hand-gallop  and  made 
for  the  lights  of  the  town.  Who  can  forget  such 
things?  The  magic  of  the  night  flowed  over  me, 
drowning  my  despair  in  a  delicious  numbness.  A 
sense  of  mysterious  good  seemed  to  lie  upon  the 
world  and  to  soften  all  our  hearts.  We  crossed  the 
outskirts.  Far  drawn  back  from  the  road  dim  lights 
shone  in  the  houses  of  the  rich  and  voices  echoed 
musically  from  open  windows.  Negroes  were  singing 
upon  the  paths,  marching  homewards  from  their  toil. 
And  as  we  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  town  there 
arose  shouts  of  laughter,  incomprehensible  cries,  the 
barking  of  dogs.  Naked  feet  shuffled  and  forms 
moved  indistinctly  in  the  gloom.  The  mad  world  of 

301 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


an  Inferno !  But  all  at  once  glimpses  of  the  bay, 
aglow  with  riding-lights  and  majestic  in  its  still 
splendour,  appeared  through  the  gaps  of  the  houses. 
The  smell  of  the  sea  came  strongly  to  us  above  the 
sugary  smell  of  the  streets.  And  overhead  the  night 
of  the  Tropics,  starry,  without  a  moon,  without  a 
cloud,  showed,  in  the  deep  sky,  the  two  Southern 
Crosses.  Yes,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  We  drove 
straight  down  to  the  quay  and,  putting  off  from 
shore,  we  reached  our  ship  just  as  ten  was  strik- 
ing. .  .  .  That  is  all.  .  .  ." 

VI 

Brownlow  ceased  and  in  the  darkness  which  had 
almost  swallowed  us  I  heard  him  sigh  deeply. 

"  No,"  he  continued  at  last,  "  there  is  no  recaptur- 
ing days  like  that.  I  see  the  long  vista  of  ten  years' 
wanderings  pivoted  upon  that  little  island.  It  trails 
from  it  with  a  dwindling  thread,  never  broken  but 
growing  thinner  and  thinner.  But  now,  if  I  were  to 
return,  everything  would  snap,  everything  would 
dissolve,  everything,  all  the  glow  of  memory,  all  the 
feelings  of  youth  and  romance.  I'm  sure  of  it,  I'm 
under  no  delusions.  But  as  it  is,  I  remember  —  isn't 
that  enough?  " 

He  stopped  again  and  I  heard  him  shifting  in  his 
seat.  Neither  of  us  spoke  for  several  minutes.  In 
the  far-off  valley  a  mist  had  spread  itself  upon  the 

302 


Nineteen 

low  margin  of  the  river.  The  young  moon  was  ris- 
ing above  the  hills,  beautiful,  soft,  gilding  the  night 
sky.  The  air  was  chilly  and  my  feet  were  damp  in 
the  dewy  grass.  I  got  up  and  stretched  myself. 

"  That's  a  strange  vivid  yarn  of  yours,  Ted,"  I 
remarked. 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  he  answered,  "  and  sad,  too,  as  I 
think  of  it.  Do  you  realise  she  would  be  nearly  fifty 
years  old?  She  was  such  a  slip  of  a  girl.  Priscilla ! 
Yes,  nearly  fifty.  I  never  saw  her  again.  Of  course 
not.  If  I  had  I  wouldn't  be  thinking  of  her  now. 
But  here,  as  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  see  her  standing 
against  the  gloomy  sea,  uncomforted  to  the  last,  a 
tragic  figure.  What  a  fool  I  was !  She  probably 
married  some  beastly  rum-swilling  brute.  A  sort  of 
old  Goodenough.  Don't  I  hear  her  whispering  for- 
lornly to  me,  '  I  lose  you,'  and  my  confident  reply, 
*  And  I  —  I  find  you  forever.'  Good  Lord !  " 

He  sighed. 

"  The  most  curious  thing  about  memory,"  he  con- 
tinued in  a  musing  tone,  "  is  the  thought  of  pas- 
sionate hearts  stilled  forever.  Sitting  here  I  conjure 
up  for  an  instant  a  vanished  world,  dead  eyes  burn 
brightly,  lips  smile,  and  an  imagined  scent  recalls 
the  emotions  of  youth.  But  I  start  and,  behold,  it 
has  all  melted  away.  Yet  there  is  something  fine, 
too,  in  the  idea  of  oblivion.  It  puts  a  seal  upon 
prying  fingers.  Who  would  not  wish  to  be  forgotten 

303 


The  Echo  of  Voices 


when  he  is  dead?  Who  would  not  rather  be  dust 
with  the  dust  of  those  he  has  cared  for  than  be  as- 
sured of  immortality  with  an  unknown  generation?  " 

He  suddenly  laughed. 

"  Well,  there  I  am  on  my  high  horse  again,"  he 
concluded.  "  But  don't  you  think  it's  getting  very 
cold?  We  had  better  make  for  the  house." 

And,  without  speaking  further,  we  went  out  of  the 
orchard  together. 


304 


A     000125208     9 


